


Moriarty's Game

by Makeira_Chan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Blowjobs, Caring John, Caring Sherlock, Creepy Moriarty, Forced blowjobs, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt part of hurt/comfort, Kinda, M/M, Nice Sally, Not Really Sure How To Use Tags, Paternal Lestrade, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Protective Greg, Protective John, Self-Harm, Selfless Sherlock, Sherlock!Whump, Torture, kinda pre-slash, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makeira_Chan/pseuds/Makeira_Chan
Summary: All of a sudden he was tossed to the ground and his head hit the wet cement floor with a sickening thud that made his body go slack for a moment.“Well, hello there! Nice to see you Sherlock! I was hoping you’d decide to pop in and say hi to your good old friend Jim.” his body tensed and suddenly all the smugness left his body at the sound of that familiar mocking tone.Moriarty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! This is my first Sherlock fic that I will actually be posting online so I'm pretty dang excited. 
> 
> The majority of the first part of this fic was written by @Fictional on their kinkmeme account and it is AMAZING. So please go check the original out because it is ridiculously good.
> 
>  
> 
> Just some warning before you get started, this fic has extremely graphic scenes of torture/self harm (kinda) and some non-con. If this makes you uncomfortable or sounds triggering please stop and go drink a warm tea and read some fluff instead. Though if this sounds good to you, great! I really hope you enjoy and I would appreciate it like crazy if you would leave some comments or a kudos to give me some feedback. Thanks so much and happy reading!

Sherlock was used to being kidnapped. Hardly a week went by that John or himself weren’t blindfolded and taken somewhere against their will, whether it was by criminals who were out to kill or injure them or Mycroft to be his nosy self and offer up some horrendously boring case. In other words neither man was new to being kidnapped. So, when two men jumped Sherlock in an alley and proceeded to try and wrangle him into the back of a van it felt almost tedious to the detective. Although he didn’t let that stop him from putting up one hell of a fight. He kicked and thrashed and punched, at one point he actually bit one of them. They still ended up getting him stuffed ungracefully into the van but he felt a smug pride fill him that he had at least gotten some good hits in.

They drove for around thirty minutes, and Sherlock spent that time calculating how long it would take for someone to notice he was missing. He estimated it would take around twelve hours for anyone to notice something was amiss. John was used to him disappearing all night to investigate a case but would begin to feel uneasy when Sherlock didn’t arrive home in the morning and would probably contact Lestrade after he tried calling and texting only to get no response. So, considering all that and the amount of time it would actually take to track them down (and this was really only if they used Mycroft’s CCTV recordings) it would be around twelve hours before he was found. He didn’t like that number very much. A lot could happen in twelve hours after all.

Apparently all that ended up being rather useless though. The van lurched to an abrupt halt and Sherlock felt his body slam into the side of the van, his hands tied behind his back and unable to steady himself. The doors were yanked open and two set’s of strong arms pulled him out and back onto the ground. They half-dragged and half-walked him to wherever they were taking him and he felt an involuntary smile appear on his face as he noticed one was limping and the other was sniffling, no doubt trying to stop any more blood from dribbling out of his nose. Before they got to their final destination however they stopped and took a moment to place a gag in his mouth and a heavy burlap sack over his head. Sherlock nearly laughed at the cliché. 

They entered the building and their shoes echoed. It sounded like a warehouse of some sort, and in the background he could hear muffled groans and heavy breathing. So, he wasn’t the only one that was captured than. All of a sudden he was tossed to the ground and his head hit the wet cement floor with a sickening thud that made his body go slack for a moment.

“Well, hello there! Nice to see you Sherlock! I was hoping you’d decide to pop in and say hi to your good old friend Jim.” his body tensed and suddenly all the smugness left his body at the sound of that familiar mocking tone.

Moriarty.

He could hear the mans shoes clacking closer to him when all of a sudden he felt a harsh yank to his hair and the burlap sack that was covering his head was jerked off pulling more than a few hairs with it and bringing stinging tears to his eyes. The lighting in the room was low and his eyes adjusted quickly to see four chairs and their inhabitants circled around him. Well, he supposes, on the bright side he won’t have to wait twelve hours for people to notice he’s gone missing. John, Lestrade, Sally and Anderson were all tied to metal chairs and none of them looked particularly happy to be there. John was furiously tugging at his restraints and rubbing his wrists against the abrasive rope until they were raw, staring at Moriarty and him with an intense rage that Sherlock had never seen on the good doctors face before. Lestrade was pale and looked as if he was going to be sick, looking at Sherlock with that paternal doting and concern Sherlock had long since come to associate with the DI. Sally also looked pale but more in control than the rest of them, resigned even. Then there was Anderson, who was really just a complete mess, shaking and sniveling into his gag. Sherlock was ripped out of his thought process by the now far-too familiar sets of arms and hauled into his own chair, although unlike the rest of Moriarty’s hostages he wasn’t tied down. Instead he felt Moriarty come up behind him and wrap a smooth hand around his throat. The detectives hand twitched and he was prepared to whirl around in his seat and send a hard punch right into the consulting criminals face but was stopped dead in his tracks by a soft tutting right against his ear.

“Ah-ah darling, wouldn’t want to do anything violent now, would we? I doubt it would bode very well for your friends here.” Sherlock reluctantly relaxed his coiled fist and let a heavy breath out through his nose, as his mouth was still gagged. “There we go, good boy!” He pet Sherlock’s head softly before kneading his fingers back through the locks and forcing him to look back up at all of his friends faces. 

“Now, we both know I don’t want you dead yet Sherlock, the time for that is still a bit far off but I don’t particularly care about these four,” he sneered. “As far as I’m concerned they’re expendable. So!” 

He snapped his fingers and four laser sites appeared, finding there way to each of the spectators, resting right above each of their hearts. 

“This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to give you an order and you’re going to do it. If you don’t do exactly as I say than one of them will die. Now I can see you being less concerned about these two,” he gestured to Sally and Anderson, “but wouldn’t that just break daddy’s heart?” he motioned towards Lestrade who had tensed up as soon as the red dot landed on his chest. “Not to mention poor John over here, he cares so much it’s adorable. So let’s see just how far you’ll go.” 

His eyes found their way to John’s who was already staring back, the blue eyes held a soldiers determination, still testing the ropes that held him, and the weight of his gaze held nothing but faith that Sherlock would pass whatever kind of test this was with flying colours, but also promised death to anyone in the room not on their side.  
Lestrade looked like he had gotten over the shock by now and was now sharing a significant portion of John’s anger. He was no longer looking at Sherlock, just staring up at Moriarty with a seething rage. 

“Let’s start with this one!” Anderson gave a frightened wail from behind his gag and more tears and snot ran down his face as all five sniper sights moved to hover above his chest. Sherlock felt a brief amusement when he saw that even Donovan looked put off by the mans behavior. However, the amusement was gone in a second as he felt the cool metal of a knife glide across his still stretched and vulnerable throat. John was now shouting and twisting in his restraints even more desperately than before, earning himself a hard swat to the head from one of Moriarty’s thugs. 

“Oh relax Johnny Boy, I’m not going to hurt him.” Sherlock thought that was a bit disingenuous considering he was still gripping his hair so hard his teeth were grinding down on his gag. 

Moriarty stooped down lower, giving Sherlock’s head another harsh jerk back and baring his throat even further, looking for all the world as if he was about to dig the knife in and sever his artery, causing the rest of them to make even more of a commotion. Instead he whispered gently into his ear.

“Sweetheart, why so tense?” he gave a light peck to Sherlock’s ear before making his way to the front of him and sliding the knife under the first button on the detective’s white dress shirt. With a quick flick of his wrist he popped one button off after the other letting Sherlock’s shirt slowly come undone and the buttons fly off into random directions, landing with a light clack on the cement floor. After all the buttons were of Moriarty handed Sherlock the knife. 

“No moving now,” he winked. “You wouldn’t want my snipers to get the wrong idea and get trigger happy now would you?” He slowly slipped his cold hands under the detective’s now ruined shirt and slid it down his arms with the careful attentiveness of a lover, making him shiver both from the chill and the disgust at how intimate the gesture felt. His disgust only seemed to delight the consulting criminal as he stepped back and gave Sherlock a long lecherous look.

“I’d say we’re ready to begin now - oh - but keep the gag in. I’d say it’s quite a good look on you.” Behind Moriarty Sherlock heard John let out a low growl. “All right, now I’m giving you ten minutes to make yourself bleed. I want you twisting in agony, and to know that you’re doing it to yourself. These ordinary people do nothing but hold you back. They stop you from reaching your full potential, your full potential that I could so easily help you achieve. You torture yourself everyday trying to live in their world… let’s make that metaphor a reality, shall we sweetheart? Torture yourself Sherlock. I want to see you bleed. Bleed enough to satisfy me and the first pet won’t die.” 

Sherlock’s grip tightened around the handle of the knife as he filed away all this information. His eyes widened and flickered over to Anderson who looked paler than some of the corpses Sherlock had seen and seemed to be on the verge of fainting. In the background he vaguely registered John thrashing around again, yelling through his gag and rocking his chair, the soldier in him trying to get control of the situation and the doctor in him trying to stop what he knew was about to happen. A couple of cuts wouldn’t be too bad, a bit painful sure, but nothing Sherlock hadn’t dealt with before. Although he had a feeling the game was only going to get worse as it went on.

“The clocks ticking honey. I’d get started if I were you.” 

The detective rolled his eyes at the endearment and with a quick tug he dragged the blade across his forearm, carving a two-inch gash that immediately began spilling hot blood. It stung at first, than it changed to a dull burn. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He ignored the increasingly desperate sounds coming from John and the gasps he assumed belonged to Sally and Anderson and continued cutting.

By the time ten minutes was up he had five cuts on his left arm, some deep enough that they would require stitches, and four across his chest, the first one deeper than he had intended and the next three longer. He knew some would end up scarring and he seriously doubted that those were the only scars he was going to be getting through this ordeal. The pain was irritating but manageable. The thing that worried him more than the pain was the blood loss, he could already feel himself getting slightly woozy and he had no idea how long he would have to sit there and play the game. The last thing he needed was to pass out.

Moriarty seemed pleased with his performance and carefully slid the knife out of his slightly shaky hand. He tossed the shaking up to blood loss and nothing more. He took a moment to glance at the others. Anderson seemed to be calming down, Sally was still and silent, Lestrade looked like he was either going to be sick or go on a homicidal rampage and John… John had lost the edge to his anger, and was now looking quite pale as well.

And Sherlock himself? He was shivering a bit from the blood cooling on his skin and his cuts stung but he was fine. Completely fine. He’d had far worse injuries than this; it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. 

“Next round!” Moriarty exclaimed cheerily. He snapped his fingers again and one of his thugs handed him… a small cooking torch. “Now this time I’ll play nice and give you five minutes. I do believe the objective of this round is rather self-explanatory.”

The red dots of the sniper rifles now turned their attention to Sally who tensed up slightly, but otherwise remained calm. She was clearly terrified but holding herself together quite well under the circumstances and Sherlock couldn’t help but gain a bit more respect for her. Most people tended to get a bit more panicky when their lives were being threatened by sniper rifles and the only thing standing in the way of their death was a sociopath whom they fight with on a daily basis; Anderson had been proof enough of that.

The torch was flicked on with a rush of gas and flame and flickered menacingly as it was passed to Sherlock. He couldn’t burn his hands, they were far too valuable and necessary, but if not them then what…

He realized that his breathing had gotten much heavier, he tried to swallow back some of his fear. This was going to be painful. This wasn’t just a few superficial cuts that looked far worse than they were. 

“Tick-tock, Sherlock dear.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw tight and decided to just power through it. He was going to have to do it no matter what, so he might as well just get it over with. Deciding on what seemed like an innocent enough place he brought the torch down onto his bicep. While he had been cutting himself he hadn’t made a sound, he kept his eyes wide open and trained on his task almost calmly, that’s not what was happening right now. He could feel his skin burning and bubbling under the intense heat. His eyes weren’t shut but they were squinted in pain and every half a minute or so he would let out a groan or a gasp. After his right bicep had had enough he moved onto his left and repeated the process. By the time Moriarty told him his five minutes were up he had burn marks and blisters all along the tops of his arms and shoulders. Even though the torch wasn’t there anymore the burning feeling along his arms only seemed to intensify as more time passed. He was suddenly strangely grateful for the gag, he didn’t want to cause the others any more distress than they were already going through and the wadded up fabric did an excellent job of muffling his groaning.

“That… was lovely! Gosh you really went for that, I can’t wait to see how you do with this next one!” 

Sherlock lifted his head up and checked up on how the others were doing. Anderson was back to looking a bit woozy although not as bad as when the snipers were aiming at him, Sally still looked well held together although there was a flash of what looked like guilt pass through her face as her and Sherlock made eye contact, Lestrade had his fists tightly clenched and seemed to be barely holding himself together and John hurt to look at the most. His eyes looked to be filling up with tears that he was desperately trying to keep at bay and he was no longer thrashing around just making pained noises of protest. The blonde man was staring at the brunette pleadingly, although Sherlock wasn’t quite sure why and he couldn’t hold his stare long enough to figure it out before he heard another snap of fingers and was forced to give his attention back to Moriarty. The shorter man was now back to brandishing the knife and was biting his lip with glee.

“For round three I want to see you shove this knife under each of your nails. I was considering just getting you to rip them off completely buuuuut this seems like more fun. Though to shake it up a bit this time I’m setting a quota. If you haven’t gotten all your nails when the time runs out I’ll finish the job on the ever so brave cop you seem so very fond of.” Sherlock felt a spike of panic go through him. So much for saving his hands. He looked up at Lestrade with wide eyes. The mans face was full of guilt and was now a chalky white with a sheen of sweat covering it. If he looked that bad Sherlock couldn’t imagine how much of a mess he must look now. He looked back over at Moriarty as he began handing him the already blood stained knife though before the weapon could reach his hand Moriarty’s attention was stolen by Lestrade’s panicked grunts and desperate thrashing. Moriarty stared at him in amusement before snapping his fingers and pointing towards the strung out DI.

“Take his gag off, pretty please,” he ordered the grunt with a limp. The lackey hobbled over to Lestrade and untied his gag none-to gently. Greg now had the attention of the whole room as he panted slightly and regarded Moriarty with a pleading look. 

“Please, stop! He’s had enough now! Let me take this one, please…” Sherlock felt a jolt of terror pierce through him at the thought of Greg having to go through this. There’s now way he was going to let that happen. Besides, he’s already gotten this far. After this round he only had one left, he would have no problem with that. Sure, he was dizzy and the burns on his body felt like they were on fire or someone was constantly branding his skin but all that’s only transport. This is a game of endurance and God help him if he doesn’t know how to endure. Without knowing it he let out a grunt of protest, his eyes flicking between Greg who was waiting for Moriarty’s answer and the consulting criminal himself who had a rather pensive expression on as if he were seriously considering Lestrade’s request. Sherlock desperately hoped he wasn’t. 

“Well, I suppose who goes through this round doesn’t reaaaaally matter much. I do still have some more tricks up my sleeve. Though I think I’ll leave the choice up to Sherlock here. Sherl honey, what do you think?” A flash of relief passed over Lestrade’s face as if he actually expected Sherlock to let him do it. Though as soon as he saw Sherlock viciously shaking his head the relief was completely replaced with a new bout of horror. 

“Sherlock, what the hell!? I’m not letting you do this for me! Let me have it!” Sherlock shook his head again though he didn’t look towards the DI, instead he held his hand out towards Moriarty, silently requesting for the knife. 

“Sorry deary!” he cast Lestrade an apologetic look and motioned for one of his men to put his gag back on. Lestrade thrashed and grunted but the men were much stronger and had better leverage, resulting in his gag being forcefully stuffed back in his mouth. “Seems like little Sherlock here is a bit of a masochist,” he handed the knife over to Sherlock with a wink.  
“Okay Sherlock, you have ten minutes starting now!” 

Sherlock stares at the knife clutched in his shaky hand and just for a moment let’s panic wash over him. This is going to hurt. A lot. He’s not sure he can even do it at all, much less in ten minutes. Not knowing where to go from here he looks up at John hoping to find some courage in those ever loyal and courageous eyes yet he finds none. John has tears in his eyes now and he staring at Sherlock with what can only be described as anguish. Slowly he shakes his head as if he’s begging for Sherlock to stop and put the knife down but he can’t dammit! He can’t put the knife down because if he does than Moriarty or one of his men will be the one to pick it up and then because of his selfishness and cowardice Lestrade will be the one who has to go through this and Sherlock doesn’t think he could handle that. He’s the reason they’re all here in the first place, he’s the one Moriarty’s so obsessed with. If it wasn’t for him they wouldn’t even be in this situation so it’s up to him to get them out.

“Seven minutes Sherlock, I’d get a move on if I were youuuu.” Moriarty’s singsong reminder jolts him out of his thoughts and he stares down at the knife with much more determination than before. He can do this. It’s just a bit of pain, it will hurt at first and then eventually it will leave, no point in dragging it out. He just needs to power through and get it done like he did with the torch. His heart was beating in his chest a mile a minute and his hands were shaking so bad he almost thought he’d miss his mark. With one last deep breath out he took the cold metal and plunged it beneath the nail of his thumb.

The pain was horrific and even the gag that was shoved in his mouth couldn’t stop the pained wail that tore through his throat. In front of him through the veil of agony coating his brain he could here his audience’s muffled shrieks and gasps through their gags along with the sound of struggling. The struggling was most probably from John, Lestrade or both though he couldn’t quite pin point it right now or even look up as the horrible stinging throbbing in his thumb was stealing all his attention. He wanted to stop right there; to throw the knife down and quit whatever ridiculous game this was but he only had around six minutes left and eight fingers and one thumb left to stab. Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing he quickly jammed the knife in his pointer finger immediately followed by another rough jab into his middle finger. Both were done in less than ten seconds and he allowed himself a few more seconds to breath. His breath was coming out shaky and he couldn’t seem to suck enough air into his nose to calm himself or to even catch his breath properly. He looked down at his hand; it was bloody and curling into itself as if it were trying to shield itself from the attacks but it was useless he still had two fingers to go on that hand. He goes for his ring finger next but only stabs it in halfway before hesitating. He knows Moriarty won’t be satisfied with that and doesn’t want to risk the possible consequences so he pushes it on the rest of the way. A bitter sob fills his ears and he distantly recognizes it as his own. One more finger to go – on this hand that is – his mind so unhelpfully reminds him. The pinky finger is the worst. The nail is the smallest on that one, so when the wide shard of metal shoves under, it pushes the nail up tearing it almost completely off until its only held there by the cuticle. He drops the knife onto his lap for a moment and clenches his eyes shut tightly trying to fight through the pain that’s completely enveloping him. The cuts on his arm and chest were stinging even harsher now that his sweat had gotten all over them and his burns felt as if someone had placed a blanket of scorching hot metal over his shoulders and biceps though nothing hurt more than his right hand, which felt like it was – and quite literally was – torn apart. Even the air seemed to be hurting it. But on the bright side at least he only had one hand left! 

“Three minutes Sherlock, might want to get started on the next hand now. That looked preeeetty unpleasant and I’m sure you’d hate for Mr. Detective Inspector over here to have to take your place.”

His stomach lurches at the sound of that voice and yet it succeeds in pushing him to continue his self-mutilation. He honestly doesn’t even properly remember starting on the next hand. If he thought he had been dizzy after just the cutting that didn’t even compare to how he was feeling now. The whole room seemed to be lurching from side to side and was making him feel rather nauseous. He couldn’t tell if the wooziness was from blood loss or extreme pain but he suspected it was a mixture of both. Through the foggy haze that is his brain he can feel that both of his hands are now in equal amounts of anguish and Moriarty is walking up behind him. He feels rough hands land on his burnt shoulders and he cringes away only to be pulled back; if his mouth had been free of his gag he knows he would have yelped.

“Phew! I really didn’t think you were going to make it there, but then again you always do tend to surprise me. So how are we feeling Sherlock?” he pauses as if waiting for a response before realizing it’s not coming. “Here, this will probably make it a bit easier.” Moriarty works the gag off slowly and carefully, making sure not to tug on any curls in the process. The careful treatment scares Sherlock more than when he had been handed a knife and told to use it on himself. “SO, ready for the final round?” Sherlock just nods, not quite trusting himself to speak yet. “Glad to hear it. You’ve done such a wonderful job so far,” he slowly began trailing his hand down Sherlocks bare and sweaty chest, his nail caught on a nipple making Sherlock wiggle back on his chair trying to get away from the sensation. Thankfully he didn’t spend any more time on his nipples and just passed right by them, not so thankfully he instead put all of his focus on sliding his finger over one of the deeper cuts on his chest, even slipping his finger in the gash and feeling the vulnerable flesh. Sherlock hissed and winced at the rough treatment of his still fresh and stinging cut. After what felt like an eternity of Moriarty slowly wiggling his finger inside of him the man finally pulled his stubby digit out only to take it greedily in his mouth and hum around the taste. 

“Mmm, delicious. You taste just like I thought you would. Metallic and salty with just a sprinkle of fear, it has a very recognizable taste you know? Fear. It’s a bit sour with just a hiiiint of musk. Very enjoyable,” he finally backed off of Sherlock completely taking all of his weight off him and the battered detective practically sighed in relief, a hint of tension leaving his body. “Now, time to get back to business! This is the last round I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear, though the stakes are a tad higher…” Carefully, Moriarty pulled something out of his trouser pocket and plopped in unceremoniously into Sherlocks hand. It felt small and cool in his warm and bloody palm and when he looked down he immediately felt his insides churn. Sitting in his palm was a small razor, no bigger than one you would find in an average pencil sharpener and his mind began racing with the possibilities of what Moriarty expected him to do with it. He wouldn’t want him to cut himself with it, that had already been done and God forbid the worlds only consulting criminal become lazy with his torture ideas. No, this was the final round and Moriarty had definitely been saving the best bit for last, it was just driving Sherlock mad that his brain was too sluggish and dizzy to properly work out what it was!

“Now, just so you know, it actually took me a considerable amount of time to work out what I wanted this last round to be. It is after all based around your favourite pet so it had to be considerably rougher than the past rounds,” Moriarty cryptically explained as he walked behind Anderson, Sally and Lestrade just to stop at John and put his hands on his rigid shoulders, giving the soldier a tight squeeze. “But not just that, I also wanted it to be more meaningful, too show Dr. Watson here just how much you care,” he spat the last word as if it were a curse. “So I tried to come up with something that you cared about more than the good doctor,” Sherlock was having a hard time focusing on his words now which seemed to be slurring together, “And then the answer hit me. Quite obvious really, you clearly don’t have much concern for your life! That much is obvious! Your tolerance for pain is rather impressively high as well so you wouldn’t even hesitate to put yourself through the wringer for good ol’ John, but I know something you do care about. Something you use daily, something you need to easily accomplish anything!” he lowered his head a tad to look as if he were whispering into Johns ear though he said it loudly enough everyone in the room could hear, “Figure it out yet?” he stood up abruptly and let a wide grin slither onto his face, it showed far too many teeth and for some reason that detail in particular unnerved Sherlock. “Your eyes!” Sherlock felt his stomach drop as he realized what it was he was expected to do with the razor and for the first time since he had been kidnapped he felt true terror flush through him. “SO! Here are your options Sherlock dear! You wither scratch your gorgeous little eyes out with that razor blade or you give the razor to my helper over there,” he pointed to thug one, “and he takes Dr. Watsons eyes instead! What’ll it be?” In his chair John was thrashing and making as much noise as he could with the gag still firmly planted in his mouth. His eyes were desperately searching Sherlocks as if he were trying to communicate whatever he wanted to say through eye contact alone. “Here, I’ll let you phone a friend.” Moriarty said amicably as he slipped Johns gag off and behind him Sherlock felt someone (most likely thug two) take his own gag out. John spoke before Sherlock even had a chance to take a proper breath.

“Sherlock, don’t! Please, it’s fine, let me take this one!” Sherlock would no doubt be too ashamed to ever admit it but for a moment he actually considered taking John up on his offer. They were his eyes. His most precious tool and asset, except when he took a moment and thought on it that wasn’t true. Sure, he used his eyes for everything; he had spent his whole life carefully training them to pick up on the smallest details that no one else would even think to notice. They helped him study people faces and bodies and allowed him too see their deepest, darkest secrets after only a slight glance and yet he knew that when it all came down to it they were not his most precious asset. His most precious and valuable tool in his whole arsenal was a short army doctor with a bit of a temper and a mad addiction to danger. The man that had willingly moved in with him and shot a cabbie to save his life all on the same day and had continued to save his life every day after that. Nobody had ever cared or looked out for him as John had, Lestrade had come the closest to matching what John and him had yet it still wasn’t on the same level. John had saved his life more times than he could count and followed him on chase after chase through London to apprehend countless murderers and criminals. Sherlock owed him everything, his life, his health, his happiness; so it only seemed right that he should do this for John, if this is what it took for him to repay John for his friendship than that’s what he would do.  
“John…” he didn’t have to say more than that, John could read his answer in his eyes just life he could read Johns fear and panic in his. 

“No. No, I won’t let you. They are your eyes Sherlock do you know how valuable those are? Not just to you but to all the people who you help with them. How will you solve all those cases without them, huh? How will you see some tiny seemingly insignificant clue on a victims shoe and tell Anderson what an idiot he is for not noticing it?” Tears were now welling up in the doctor’s eyes, dangerously close to spilling over and rolling down his flushed cheek.

“John, I-I have too,” he cursed himself for allowing his voice to waver; for showing weakness, “Besides even blind I’ll still solve crimes better than all of Scotland Yard,” he tried to lighten the situation with a bit of humour but it didn’t seem to have the desired effect of making John laugh, instead the ex-soldier just grimaced. 

“Freak, don’t be stupid.” Apparently Sally’s gag had been removed as well and upon another brief glance at Lestrade and Anderson Sherlock saw they were now gag-free as well. “This is insane!” her whole body was tense as she spoke and he looked about as unnerved as she had when multiple snipers had a sight on her.

“Sherlock, just think about it a minute,” Lestrade was looking at him carefully and speaking with the same cautiousness you would use to get a murderer to put his weapon down or to talk to a skittish animal so as not to frighten it. “You have options. Let’s all just talk this through a minute.”

“I don’t have options Lestrade,” he meant it to sound like his usual impatient voice but what with the dizziness and his sudden shortness of breath it came out weak and like a bad parody of his usual self. “I have an option, one alternative which is too let John take it instead and quite frankly he’d make a horrible blind person.” 

“This is bloody mad even for you.” Ah, and there was Anderson. Sherlock was somewhat impressed to see he was no longer sniveling and snotty though he was still shaking like a leaf and his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. 

“Please,” Johns voice was quiet now, he already knew that Sherlock had made up his mind and yet he was still trying to change it, ever the good soldier. “Please, Sherlock, if you care about me at all you won’t do this. I-I can’t let you do this for me. I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.” Sherlock knew there was a certain selfishness to his choice, that John would no doubt be plagued by guilt and yet he knew that if he let John loose his eyes instead that very same guilt would be targeting him and he knew he couldn’t handle that. So yes, he was going to be selfish he just prayed that by the end of this John would be able to forgive him.

“This is all very sweet and as much as I’m loving the whole soap opera feel to this I really would like to move along now. Get the show on the road as they say. So Sherlock darling, what’s your decision?” Sherlock took one last good look at John and tried to commit every detail on his face to memory, if this was the last time he would ever get to see John Watsons face than he would make sure to get a good long look.

“How long do I have?” Moriarty’s face practically lit up at the answer. 

“Oh Goodie! I was so hoping you’d make this choice. I think two minutes should be plenty.” Sherlock nodded. His heart was racing and he was so woozy it felt as if his head would float away from his body completely.

“NO! No, stop Sherlock! Stop this right now!” he so wished John would be quiet; he really wasn’t making this any easier to do. He took as deep of a breath as he could before slowly lifting the blade to his eyes. In less than two minutes he would never see again. He would be stuck in eternal darkness. He’d never see his mothers face again or see John smiling. How would he tell if Mycroft gained weight? He supposed he could work something out with the heaviness of his footsteps but it would certainly be an adjustment. The blade was nearly to his eye now; barely a millimeter more and it would touch the soft vulnerable flesh of his eye. When Moriarty spoke up again it was in a voice so loud it nearly made Sherlock jump and prematurely dig the blade into himself.

“Oh! Wait!” The consulting criminal ordered, his voice was loud and it echoed off of the warehouse walls. “I almost forgot. You do have another option, though I doubt you’ll find it any more appealing than this one.” Sherlock really couldn’t think of anything that could be worse than what he was about to do. 

“Well, please, do share,” he pushed out between puffs of breath, sarcasm as thick as he could manage. Moriarty had the full attention of everyone in the room now as they all waited anxiously for the new addition to the game.  
“Option one, as you know, is to take that little razor blade and use it to scratch your eyes out, which I admit isn’t entirely appealing. Option two is to hand the blade over to the big fella next to you and he’ll take Dr. Watsons eyes instead and option three,” he pointed down to the patch of ground in front of him. “Get on your knees, crawl over here, and show daddy some love,” his smile after he was finished speaking was nothing short of lecherous and Sherlock felt equal parts disgust and rage fill him. Rage at Moriarty for managing to humiliate him so completely and disgust at both Moriarty for deciding on an option so foul and himself for playing right into the consulting criminals hands. 

“You’re bloody sick in the head.” Johns voice was full of so much venom and rage it nearly made Sherlock flinch even though it wasn’t directed towards him. 

“That may be true Johnny Boy, but so is your gal pal Sherlock over there,” he smiled at Sherlock in a grotesquely fond way. Sherlock supposed that was true. Moriarty may have been the one that thought up the game but Sherlock was the one playing it, there’s no denying a person would have to be rather mentally deranged to do either. However Sherlock wasn’t mental enough not to know an obvious choice when he saw one. Giving his arch-enemy head was hardly the way that he wanted to be spending his time and his teeth began grinding together at the very thought of having to give the disgusting vile man any iota of pleasure and yet willingly making himself blind was far worse. Fellatio would be over in a half-hour at most where as going blind was permanent. “We’re really one in the same he and I. Maybe all this will help show him that.” Sherlocks jaw clenched. They may have similarities but he was not Moriarty. He would never allow himself to become like this.

The choice he had to make was obvious and so without a word or even a glance in his restrained friends direction he lifted himself out of the chair. As soon as he stood up he nearly tipped back over, but thankfully managed to get his footing back before he crashed onto the hard pavement flooring. He took a deep breath both to steady and prepare himself before very slowly lowering himself onto all fours. He tried to be as careful as he could of his injuries but his whole body still cried out in agony as he stretched it into the far from natural positioning. His hands and burns hurt the worst of all, his shoulders being stretched and twisted so the charred skin got even further deformed and his fingers pressing hard into the cold floor to keep his balance and help guide him over to where his tormentor awaited him. Slowly and steadily he crawled over to wear Moriarty stood, haughty and proud in his bespoke suit, such a sharp contrast to Sherlock who was bloodied, beaten and only half dressed. He tried to ignore the flaming humiliation he felt. Each small baby step forward felt like it took several hours and Sherlock felt as unsteady and unsure of his movements as a small toddler just learning to crawl. After what felt like a small eternity a pair of black loafers entered his field of view. He stopped crawling and stayed kneeled in front of Moriarty waiting for instruction. If Sherlocks blood wasn’t so busy rushing out of his body he’s positive he’d have a heavy blush coating his face just about now. The pure humiliation of having to be in such a compromising position was almost worse than the physical torture he had just been through. 

“Let’s start by having you undo my trousers.” Behind him he heard John practically growl along with a scoff from Lestrade though he was momentarily less concerned with their reactions and more concerned with how he was going to get the trouser button undone with his ruined fingers. Hesitantly, he raised them planning to just figure it out as he went but he was suddenly halted by Moriarty’s raised hand, grabbing the detective’s attention. Jim clucked disapprovingly at the young brunette on his knees in front of him. “I didn’t tell you to use your hands, daddy would be positively cross if you got any of that delicious blood of yours on his suit. Use your mouth.” Sherlocks jaw clenched involuntarily. He hated this. Hated that Moriarty had the nerve to do this to him and hated that he had allowed himself to be put in such a vulnerable position, but looking over at his friends who were currently strapped to chairs with at least four sniper rifles ready to end their lives he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Without raising any fuss – not that he had the energy to do that anyways, he suddenly felt very tired and sluggish – he brought his mouth to the front of Jims trousers and began maneuvering the button through the small loop with his tongue and teeth, all the while trying to ignore the feel of Moriarty’s quickly expanding groin. It was slow work what with his body heavy and uncooperative and his head feeling dizzier by the second, though after around three and a half minutes he finally managed to unclasp the button and pull the zipper down with his teeth. He gagged as his lips brushed against a wet patch on the front of Jims black pants but tried to reign it in before his utter repulsion became to obvious. The last thing he needed was Moriarty to get offended and decide to shoot John out of spite. 

“Good job sweet heart,” his hand gently patted down Sherlocks sweat soaked curls, “Don’t forget the rest of it now.” Sherlocks jaw clenched tightly glaring at the last article of clothing standing between him and Jim’s engorged cock. They were posh looking black boxer briefs, eerily similar to the pairs Sherlock owned (which he would be burning when he got back home), they were new; no more than a month or two old and still smelled faintly of laundry detergent, once you got past the thick smell of musk and pre-come that is. At least he had the cleanliness factor going for him, though he supposed that would fly out the window as soon as he got to the actual point to all this. His hands were still far too wrecked and shaking to use easily and he assumed that Moriarty’s “no blood stains” rule still applied, so reluctantly and with a hefty amount of trepidation he bit down on the waist band of his pants and slid them down until his whole cock was uncovered. He was already near fully erect and as his prick became uncovered it slapped lightly into Sherlocks cheek, leaving a disgusting splotch of pre-come that made the younger man shiver in repulsion. He tried not to stare at his erection though it was a tad difficult to avoid when it was literally in his face. It was uncircumcised, thick, and only a bit longer than his own. It also had a large white bead of pre-come dangling precariously on the head threatening to roll further down the shaft. He pulled his head away unconsciously not wanting to be so close to it.

“Tsk tsk Sherlock. You’ll never get any work done from alllll the way over there. I know you know how to give a proper blowjob so get to work. Impress me,” he said the last line with a smug smirk but that wasn’t the part that made Sherlock uneasy, it was what he said before that. He knows? He wasn’t sure how much Moriarty had actually dug up on his past though after The Woman had claimed that Moriarty had nick-named him The Virgin he was fairly sure he hadn’t actually dug too deep. Sherlock was a curious person at heart and he had spent his University years much like everyone else had when it came to sexual experimentation. Apparently he had underestimated the consulting criminal. Again. How stupid of him. He took a big breath to prepare himself before bringing his head a bit closer, in his current position if he stuck his tongue out just a bit it would graze against the bead of pre-come that was still getting ever bigger. 

“For God’s sake isn’t this enough now?” he nearly groaned as he heard Lestrade’s voice. Didn’t he realize he was just unnecessarily dragging this out?

“Not the brightest, are you?” Moriarty glanced at Lestrade with an amused tilt to his smile. “If it were already enough all four of you would be untied and on your way home to do whatever it is you ordinary little people do,” he drawled out ‘ordinary’ as if it were a gross taste on his tongue, “However, I have been extremely excited to feel that pretty mouth wrap around my prick since I first saw it. No way I’m passing this precious little opportunity up.”

“You’re disgusting.” Sally piped up. Ugh! Why couldn’t they all just let him get this over with quickly?! All this anticipation and waiting was making if far harder than it had to be.

“Ouch. You got me there! What smarty you are. I’m so glad the MET is recruiting people with your outstanding intelligence Ms. Donovan. Now if all you little pets are done barking and whinging I’d truly love to carry on.” 

“I’ll bet, sicko.” Andersons voice was still shaky, though Sherlock was surprised he would bother speaking at all. Not that anyone paid much attention to the statement however. Moriarty acted as if he hadn’t heard it at all, focusing all this attention on Sherlock now. John had been the only one not to say anything this time, and that filled Sherlock with a whole new kind of fear. What could be going through the army soldiers mind? Was he angry? Disappointed? Disgusted? And did he feel that way towards Moriarty or Sherlock himself? He wouldn’t be surprised if John hated him when this was all said and done. He was about to sleep with the enemy, so-to-speak, and he was the reason John and everyone were here in the first place. This was really his fault in the end. He shouldn’t have underestimated Moriarty’s obsession with him. He should have seen this coming. 

Not wanting to waste anymore time delaying the inevitable he closed off the remaining space between himself and the cock standing at full attention in front of him and placed his lips around the crown, carefully suckling. He gagged slightly as the strong taste of pre-come, musk, and sweat filled his mouth. The gooey texture and silky feel of foreskin under his tongue was disgusting enough. Jim didn’t bother telling him not to bite. They both knew who had the upper hand here and as long as John and the others were held under those four red dots Sherlock wouldn’t do anything risky. That didn’t make the action any less tempting however. 

Moriarty let out a clearly exaggerated moan as Sherlocks tongue brushed over the sensitive slit “Ah! I knew those lips would look fantastic wrapped around a cock.” Moriarty was correct in his implication that this wasn’t Sherlocks first blowjob. He had given several, mostly in Uni, and he had been told on multiple occasions that his technique was rather good. He was thankful for that now. If he tried his hardest he may be able to finish this in under ten minutes. Without any further delay he leaned forward and put as much of the shaft into his mouth as he could. He would periodically apply a strong suction and then follow it up with a swirl of his tongue following the veins and patterns on the tight skin. Jim moaned again though this time it wasn’t exaggerated. Sherlock tried to ignore the sound of his voice; it made everything so much worse. He tried to imagine that it was someone else he currently had in his mouth, maybe a nameless man he picked up in a bar or one of his flings from Uni, but guiltily his mind instead supplied an image of a short sturdy blond man wearing a disgusting wool jumper and nothing else, moaning as Sherlock took him deeper and deeper. His face actually heated up at the thought and he was suddenly extremely thankful his whole body was in such excruciating pain. The only thing worse than having to give you worst enemy a blowjob would be to get hard yourself while doing it, even if you were imagining someone else. The image of John in front of him instead of this awful man made him work even harder moving his tongue everywhere it could reach and bobbing up and down with just the barest graze of teeth, no more than a tickle. He paused slightly as a hand came to rest on his head and begin playing lightly with his curls. He wished Moriarty wouldn’t be so gentle, he wished that he would yank his hair and just fuck his face. It would be over so much quicker and would be so much less humiliating. The gentle and delicate, almost caring, touches made it even easier to imagine it was the kind army doctor in front of him as well, and Sherlock really couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. 

“Ohhh… This definitely isn’t your first time is it? Did your little pet teach you how to do this?” Oh God. Why did he have to bring up John? An image of John actually leading through a blowjob nearly made him whimper, though thankfully he muffled it in time. “Ah! Oh… forget the detective thing, this should be your fulltime job instead…” All of a sudden Moriarty’s fingers tightened up and yanked Sherlocks head forward, Sherlock gave one last hard suck and ignored the tears forming in his eyes from the tugging on his hair and the prick being crammed down his throat. A hot flood of come ran down his throat and Moriarty’s cock pulsed madly on his tongue. The salty taste filled his mouth and the musky smell of sex engulfed his nose until all he could smell or taste was Moriarty. He was desperate to pull away from the taste and the feel of the slick come sliding down his throat but he seemed to come forever. Finally, the hold on his hair loosened and the hand pulled away allowing him to yank himself back and retch onto the concrete beside him. 

“Your technique was wonderful darling but your etiquette afterwards could use a little improvement, we can always work on that in the future though.” Wiping the remaining bile from his swollen lips he looked back at Moriarty who was smirking tucking himself back into his pants and pulling up his trousers. “Well, I’ve had a blast, but I do believe it’s time to take off. You know the drill, murderers to consult terrorist organizations to lead, but I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.” With one last wink the consulting detective turned and began walking out of the warehouse with his two lackeys following closely behind. It took barely a second after the warehouse door slammed shut behind him for Sherlock to feel a hand placed carefully on his back and John popped into view. His face was pale, far paler than Sherlock had ever seen and his eyes had the look of a man out to kill. Sherlock couldn’t help flinching at the sight, sure the anger was for him. How could John ever forgive him after that? After what he did and put him and everyone through. John wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore, much less want anything to do with him… romantically? Sexually? Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what he himself wanted after that confusing ordeal. 

Apparently John mistook the flinch for one of pain though, for his face instantly grew guilty. “Christ! Sorry, sorry. Did I hurt you?” Sherlock shook his head mutely, confused by the concern on the doctors face. Why was John apologizing anyway? He zoned out slightly and heard Lestrade talking to Anderson and Donovan behind them. Barely half a minute later Lestrade came up to kneel beside John, staring at Sherlock with the same concerned grimace. He was pale too, his hands were also slightly shaky and he looked as if he were about to be sick. Sherlock knew that feeling well. 

“Jesus. How is he?” Sherlock was baffled yet again as to why he was asking John that when he could have just asked Sherlock directly but he supposed he was a little too out of it to give himself a proper diagnosis. 

“The burns are bad, third or fourth degree, the cuts will definitely need stitches though and he’s lost a frankly ridiculous amount of blood. When’s the ambulance getting here?”

“Shouldn’t take more than five minutes now.”

“Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock? How are you feeling?” Sherlock snapped back to attention and took his eyes off his blood soaked hands to look straight at John. John was looking at him intensely no doubt checking his pupil dilation and pulse for any abnormalities. 

“I’ve been better,” his own voice surprised him slightly. It was croaky from disuse and sore from the fellatio. Oh God. He could not think about that while looking at John, he just couldn’t. He mentally cringed at himself and lowered his gaze not wanting to be faced with Johns own intense eye contact but the Doctor was having none of it and tilted his chin up so they were facing each other again. Sherlock prayed his embarrassment wasn’t showing. 

“Is he alright?” All three men turned to see Anderson and Donovan. Donovan was holding herself well considering, and though Anderson was still shaking like a cold Chihuahua he looked somewhat put together as well. 

“He’ll be better once he gets to hospital. We should get outside so the ambulance can find us easier.” John looked over at Lestrade, “Greg? Help me lift him up.” Lestrade nodded and they both grabbed an arm trying to carefully avoid the wounds but their careful efforts made it no less painful. When he was finally upright and standing they began to maneuver him over to the exit but Sherlock carefully broke away.

“I can walk on my own,” he didn’t need to be coddled or walked around like an invalid. Sherlock was perfectly capable of moving himself around. Yet, despite all this John and Lestrade looked at him with a slight frown. 

“No way, not with all that blood loss. You must be feeling lightheaded enough as it is.” John did have a point. He was rather dizzy and even just standing still he could see a few stray black dots swimming around his vision and hear his blood pumping in his ears. Sherlock was nothing if not stubborn though and began to walk anyways. The first two steps were relatively fine, just a bit of swaying and nausea but on the third the black dots came back with a vengeance and completely engulfed his sight. He felt himself fall forward and tried to prepare himself for the hard fall that awaited him but two strong pairs of hands managed to grab him just in time.

“How’s about you just let us handle the walking for now?” Lestrade’s gruff voice registered in his ears and he felt himself nod. 

“Prob’ly a good idea...” he may have argued more under different circumstances but he suddenly felt unbearably exhausted and for once didn’t mind letting Lestrade and John take control of the walking. Slowly and carefully the three men shuffled towards the doors that Anderson and Donovan were already holding open for them and walked out into the fresh air. It felt great to get away from the stale sex-tinged air of the warehouse. Sherlock felt himself begin to shiver as the cool air dried his sweaty skin. Donovan was holding his shirt and jacket and he was tempted to put it on but he knew it would hurt badly on top of his burns. John felt him begin to shake and ran a hand along his back trying to add some friction heat. They had only to wait a few more moments before the sound of sirens filled the air and the ambulance was coming down the road. Everything happened incredibly fast, or maybe Sherlock was just more out of it than he thought, but it barely took three minutes for him too be laid on a gurney (much to his displeasure) and transported into the back of the ambulance with John sitting beside him. He wasn’t sure where Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were but they must have still been outside explaining the situation to the paramedics and police. 

Carefully, John gave Sherlocks hand a light squeeze and a small reassuring smile, “Everything’s fine. We’re on our way to hospital now so just rest a bit. It’s all fine,” he wasn’t sure if the repeated reassurances were for him or John himself but he didn’t think about it to hard as he let his eyes fall shut finally let the black dots take over completely.


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally awoke Sherlock was surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and clean sheets. His brain felt foggy. Like his cranium had been stuffed with cotton and clouds. It was for this reason that it took him a full minute before he realized he was in a hospital and another minute to remember _why_ exactly he was there. He felt a shiver go through his spine as he remembered the events that had transpired. The blowtorch, the knife, and oh god, the blowjob. He could feel bile rising in his throat, which in turn reminded him of Moriarty’s cum sliding down his throat and he had to stop thinking about this before he actually vomited. He needed to distract himself from his own thoughts and memories, his Mind Palace was currently in shambles and for once he found himself running away from his own mind instead of seeking refuge in it. He couldn’t yet open his eyes however, his whole body felt sluggish and slow including his eyelids so he put his focus on his other four senses to try and gauge what was happening around him.

 

The air smelled of detergent and medicine. He couldn’t feel the bed sheets under his fingers as those appendages were currently covered in a soft material that felt like gauze but he could feel the crisp linen brushing against his bare legs. He didn’t feel any pain but going by how sluggish and lazy his body currently was it was safe to assume he was on morphine, or at the very least a strong dose of pain medication. His mouth tasted of iron and an unfamiliar sour musk that made his nose wrinkle in disgust and his stomach slosh uneasily. He wondered distantly how quickly he would be able to get a toothbrush to wash the awful taste out of his mouth. He could hear the slow rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside him, the pitter patter of feet as nurses doctors and patients alike moved about the halls and, possibly the most worrying sound, the sound of someone’s slightly hitched breathing. Sherlock knew that he would have to face up to everyone eventually but he certainly wasn’t looking forward to the moment. People tended to find him unlikeably eccentric on his best days and today most definitely was not a ‘best day’. Anderson and Donovan never had high opinions of him in the first place, and quite frankly speaking he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him. John and Lestrade however were an entirely different story.

 

Lestrade had been like a father figure to him in many ways. The Good Policeman teaching the Lost Junkie right from wrong and saving him from his own demons a few times along the way. Lestrade had seen Sherlock through some of his worst times. Through the shakes and vomiting and plethora of other nasty withdrawal symptoms. He had been rather shockingly accepting of it at the time. Not approving. No, never did Lestrade approve of the way Sherlock conducted himself at that time (and he was rather unafraid to remind Sherlock of this) but he at least accepted that was the way it was. Lestrade had been there through that and never turned his back on Sherlock then. Perhaps he would stick it out through this as well. Though Sherlock suspects watching some twenty year old you hardly know pump himself full of drugs and watching a man you’ve come to work with and have formed a friendship with mutilate himself and then get down on his knees to give his arch-nemesis a blow job may evoke two separate sets of emotional reactions. This particular set of emotions may not work out in Sherlock’s favour this time.

 

Then there was John. John Watson. The Good Doctor and Loyal Soldier. John was also known for being rather forgiving as well. He had forgiven Sherlock a lot throughout their quickly started friendship. He only made a minor fuss at the body parts in the fridge, only occasionally got in a huff about Sherlock’s poor manners and nearly never threw a fit about Sherlock waking him up during the night with impromptu violin concerts anymore. Though again, these were only minor offences compared to Sherlock’s current glaring predicament. John was a good man and a loyal one to boot but every person has there limits. This could very well be John’s final breaking point and Sherlock was all too aware of that. But he could be fine with that. Sherlock had been alone plenty in his life before John had come along and though Post-John life was far preferable to Pre-John life, Sherlock could manage. It wouldn’t break him. He would be fine if John decided he had finally had enough. He desperately wished it were easier to lie to himself.

 

He unwittingly found himself thinking back to how he had pictured John when he was on his knees in front of Moriarty. He had always fantasized about that sort of relationship between the two of them, though he rarely admitted it to himself much less to anyone else. It had never been easy for him to form connections with other people yet when he met John he knew it was different. As flatmates they had a rather domestic relationship. More so then common male friends over the age of thirty, Sherlock realized. They had a sort of calm fluidity around each other and it was all too easy to picture their days of tea and toast, domestics and banter and comfortable silence mixed with kisses and tender touches. Longing looks and whispered promises. Sherlock knew this wouldn’t become a reality. He didn’t have high hopes before he had fileted and roasted himself in front of John and three members of Scotland Yard but now he knew his fantasies would stay just that. Fantasies. Perhaps John would forgive him and they could build their normalcy back up to resemble what they had before all this. They could go back to being flatmates and partners. Sherlock would be fine with that. More than fine. He would be happy to go back to that, just knowing he had John in his life would be enough.

 

Either way Sherlock knew he could only lay there and brood for so long. Whether he wanted to or not he would eventually need to open his eyes and face the situation head-on. Best to rip it off like a plaster. Get it over and done with.

 

On that less-than-optimistic note he fluttered his heavy eyelids open with a startling amount of effort and felt his face scrunch at the blinding brightness of the room. There was a large window letting in large streams of sunlight that seemed determined to burn Sherlocks retinas out of his skull. It was as if that small amount of pain had awakened his whole pain body and suddenly he could feel every wound on him. His arms and chest hurt from the long stitched up gashes adorning them. His fingers prickled with a sharp pinch. The worst however, were his upper arms and shoulders. He could feel the fried skin pinching and pulling. The skin still felt as if it were being slowly burned. Sherlock let out a sharp hiss at the sudden influx of sensation.

 

“Sherlock? You awake?” He turned his head a bit to the side to properly look at Greg seated next to him. The detective inspector looked worn and exhausted. He had clearly just been nodding off and was looking at Sherlock through bleary eyes. He still had blood splashed across the front of his shirt from when he’d dragged Sherlock out of the warehouse earlier. He lifted his hands up to try and rub the bleariness out of his own eyes but his progress was halted by Lestrade’s rough hand wrapping around his wrist and gently bringing it back down to the bed. “Probably not the best idea,” he nodded towards Sherlocks bandaged hands. “They wrapped you up to make sure your nails didn’t get infected. Said it was important not to do anything that could tear them back open.” Sherlock was already beginning to feel annoyed at the inconvenience of not being able to use his body efficiently but reluctantly relented and went back to blinking.

 

“You look awful.” Sherlock could blame his lack of tact on the drugs currently being pumped into his system but he was never really one for tact, drugs or no. Greg however seemed about as unbothered by it as he is of most of the inappropriate things Sherlock does and just let out a surprised snort, his face evening out a bit in amusement.

 

“Look who’s talking. Figures that the first thing to come out of your mouth would be an insult.” Sherlock felt the slight need to defend himself.

 

“Not an insult,” Sherlock croaked, his voice rough from disuse. “An observation,” he clarified. Lestrade smiled at him. Sherlock felt a flutter of relief go through him. He knew the probability of Lestrade treating him with hostility was a very possible scenario and seeing evidence of the contrary was a weight off. He realized of course that the older mans attitude could change toward him at any moment but he still decided on taking the friendliness as a sign of good faith.

 

“Of course. Obvious really. Want some water?” Sherlock nodded as eagerly as his sore body would allow. He was rather anxious to get the taste of manly musk and blood out of his mouth and moved to lift himself up a bit but hissed through his teeth as the skin on his back stretched even further.

 

“Yeah, best be careful of that,” Lestrade warned, handing the cup of water over to Sherlock while simultaneously stuffing more pillows behind the younger man to prop him up without the added pain. “The morphine should help with the pain but you still need to be careful not to put too much strain on your injuries. Particularly your back and arms. The, uh, burns did quite a number on ‘em.” Sherlock was too preoccupied with the cool feeling of water in his mouth and throat to reply right away. He would have liked to properly wash his mouth out or at least gargle with it, but that would have to wait for later. Nonetheless, the soothing water was like a balm on his dry throat. After the cup was empty he found talking much easier.

 

“How long have I been out?”

 

“Not long. A few hours. Five tops. You were going in and out for a while but you probably don’t remember the first few times you woke up. You kept falling back under in a matter of seconds,” he glances over at the dark haired man before looking back down to his lap and continuing. “They stitched up your, uh, your cuts, and did some kind of surgery on your shoulders before bandaging them up. Gave you a sedative, that sort of thing. Pretty sure they were waiting for you to be conscious to do anything more drastic. John and I already gave our statements to the cops, though they’ll still need one from you…” he looked back up at Sherlock to gauge his reaction but Sherlock was already off again. His fuzzed up brain finally reminded him that John was no where in sight which was unusual. Sherlock did expect some sort of negative reaction from John, he had a temper and wasn’t very good at hiding it and Sherlock had done something even more outrageous than usual (which was really saying something) but he had at least expected John to be there when he woke up. He felt a cold weight drop in his stomach. An uneasy feeling spread through him a nagging voice in his head was mocking him. _You got it wrong!_ A voice suspiciously like Moriarty’s sang. _You thought he would be here, forgive you and you could go back to how it was before but you were **wrong.** He couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with you long enough to wait for you to wake up. You’re disgusting to him. _ He blocked out the voice and focused instead on making his face and voice entirely non-chalant. If John did leave him than Sherlock will except it with dignity. No making a fuss. That didn’t mean he shouldn’t inquire about him however.

 

“When did John leave? Did he tell you where he was going?” John wouldn’t have been able to find a new flat on such short notice and had probably gone to Harriet’s to stay, though Sherlock knew that John and his sister didn’t get on too well. He wouldn’t be able to afford a hotel with his salary though so really what other options were there?

 

“Don’t worry. He just went to grab some coffee. Should be back any minute now. He’s been worried sick, Sherlock. We all have…” Lestrade’s words took on a sad tinge and he lowered his head. If Sherlock didn’t know any better he’d say he looked nearly shameful. Which is odd as Sherlock is the only one in this situation who should be feeling anything relating to shame or embarrassment.

 

Like most difficult things in his life he decides to ignore the change in atmosphere in the room and divert the subject.

 

“You’re implying that Anderson and Donovan are _worried_? Really Lestrade, this sedative isn’t strong enough to make me believe that,” he decided against informing Lestrade that he wasn’t worried and tried to hide the relief he felt to know that John was still in the hospital. He was surprised, but the more he though about it the more it made sense. John was an army Doctor. He healed people, he cared about them and their health. He would want to make sure Sherlock was healed and cared for before he left him.

 

“I am not _implying_ anything. I’m informing. We were all worried Sherlock. What that bastard did to you...” Lestrade growled but wasn’t able to finish his thought before Sherlock interrupted, not particularly wanting to go there just yet.

 

“Please Lestrade. I’ve dealt with more than a few broken nails and some cuts. You should know better than anyone that it would take more than that to so much as inconvenience me. And technically he didn’t do anything to me. If you recall everything you see in front of you was thoroughly self inflicted.”

 

“He did more than that to you Sherlock and you know it. And yes _he_ did it to you. He might not have gotten his hands dirty but you were backed into a corner, and that’s partly my fault.” Sherlock felt his eyebrows crinkle up in confusion. He didn’t have a clue what Lestrade was talking about. He had been prepared for the DI to blame him. To be angry and disgusted. To say he would never look at him the same. The last thing he expected was for Lestrade to blame _himself_.

 

“What?” he asked not even knowing what to say. He was still a bit too fuzzy in the head from the sedative to follow the odd change in conversation. He knew Lestrade was hardly a genius but surely even he couldn’t be stupid enough to think anything that happened was because of him. Moriarty did that to get at Sherlock, because he has an obsession with _him_ , because he swore to burn _his_ heart out. Greg was nothing but a pawn to Moriarty. If it weren’t for the fact that him and Sherlock were friends Greg wouldn’t have even been sitting in that chair. In the end, it was Moriarty’s obsession with him and him alone that led to everyone else being put in danger.

 

“When he… God. When he told you to do that to yourself,” he gestured frantically towards Sherlocks bandage covered hands and place his head into his open palms. “It should have been me to do that. I should have gotten hurt, not you. You had already done so much. You were already so hurt. I’m a cop, Sherlock! My job is to protect people and when it came down to it all I did was watch. I failed you and I’m… I’m sorry.”

 

Sherlock tried not to gawk at the DI. That had not been what he was expecting and he had no clue where Lestrade had gotten such a ludicrous idea from. “Lestrade…” he started, his voice gentle and purposeful in the way he usually reserved for trauma victims and, on occasion, Mrs. Hudson. It felt strange to be talking to Lestrade like this. “It wasn’t up to Moriarty. Not really. It was my choice and you can hardly be blamed for my actions.” The DI shook his head, looking up at Sherlock with glassy eyes.

 

“Why though? Why didn’t you just let me take that round? I could have handled it Sherlock. I could have taken some of the weight off.” He looked so upset and Sherlock hated it. Lestrade should never look like that and especially not because of something _he_ did.

 

“Because it was made for me. It was my fault we were there in the first place, so it was only right I took the punishment made for me. You lot were just for decoration to Moriarty. Just pawns to use against me. None of that was intended for you.” Sherlock watched his answer absorb into Lestrade’s brain. The older man seemed a bit startled by the answer and shook his head again, though one of disagreement instead of guilt. Sherlock liked that much more. Anything was better than seeing Lestrade feeling guilty over something Sherlock himself had done wrong.

 

“Sherlock, what do you mean? It wasn’t-“

 

“He’s awake?” John’s voice cut through Lestrade’s and both men halted their conversation to look at the blond standing in the doorway holding two medium sized steaming coffees that were no doubt weak and tasted awful. John stared at Sherlock for a minute and the brunette felt himself freeze. What was he going to say? What was he thinking? _He probably thinks I look pathetic, sitting in a hospital bed because of the pains I caused myself because I was too foolish, too **stupid**_ -“ he didn’t get a chance to chastise himself any further because John was suddenly rushing forward and plonking the coffees on the end table, almost spilling them but not seeming to care as he sat down carefully yet anxiously on the side of Sherlocks bed. Sherlock tensed under his friends gaze, wishing he could burrow under the covers and hide from him, hide from the conversation he knew would be coming.

 

“You’re awake.” He repeated, practically a whisper. “Thank God. We were all worried. Even Anderson and Donovan believe it or not, it was actually a tad creepy. Think it was better when they were pricks. How do you feel? Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea?” Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by the influx of words coming out of John’s mouth and yet none of them hinted at moving out. _He must just be waiting till I’m out of hospital, wants to make sure I’m not in imminent danger, he’s like that_. Slowly the younger man shook his head, still not able to look John directly in the eye but settling for his forehead where John (hopefully) wouldn’t be able to tell if he was looking him in the eye or not. John however, clearly didn’t have that issue. He was looking at Sherlock with intent, the way Sherlock himself looked at interesting dead things.

 

“No… I’m uh, I’m good.” Oh god, now he’s mumbling. Could he get any more pathetic? “Little drugged up though,” he shrugged over at the I.V. in his arm rhythmically dripping the relaxing sedative into his body. He seemed to have suddenly acquired the wonderful ability to state the obvious. He wondered how John felt about him using morphine right now. He knew John didn’t exactly approve of his history of substance abuse. Would this be the last straw, he wondered. Would John tell him right here and now that he couldn’t take living with some junkie who got off on self-harm and giving sexual favours to his enemies?

 

John did none of these things and only nodded in understanding. He didn’t seem at all distressed about the hospital issued drug use either.

 

“Yeah, they had to put you on painkillers and give you a blood transfusion,” he pointed towards the second I.V. bag full of red liquid. “You lost a lot. We were worried for a bit you were going to bleed out but they managed to prevent that. They’ve got your chest and arm stitched up but they had to do a surgical procedure on both your hands and shoulders. You’re burns are the worst of it. Third degree. They bandaged you up quick to prevent infection and they already excised all the necrotic tissue and debrided all the bullae but they’ll still need to-“

 

“John?”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I’m fine. It’s fine. Lestrade already informed me about what the doctors said.”

 

“Ah,” John nodded once, “Well, good. That’s… Good.”

 

“I do have a question though, that I believe you’d be more qualified to answer,” he heard Lestrade huff gruffly beside them and turned to see him looking rather put out. Sherlock softened his features slightly, though it was hard when he just wanted to hide under the covers and stop anyone from looking at him. “I meant because of his medical expertise.” Lestrade nodded and the hurt ebbed away.

 

“Yeah, sure. Of course. What is it?” John asked, clearly eager to be of use.

 

“When will I be able to check out of here?” he was hoping it would be soon, he hated hospitals and was already missing the familiar comfort of Baker Street but going by the look on John’s face he knew he wouldn’t be getting his wish.

 

“Not for a while. Like I said you have third degree burns, which you’d need to be hospitalized for anyways. Plus you just had surgery and need a shit-ton of recovery time. They’ll want to monitor your food intake and make sure you’re getting enough calories to fight off any infections or diseases. It’ll take a bit.” That was definitely not the answer he wanted to hear.

 

“Christ Sherlock, I could’ve told you that!” Lestrade piped up beside them. Sherlock gave him a half-hearted glare, though he knew it didn’t hold the ice it normally did.

 

“Can’t I just do the recovery and eating at home? I live with a doctor for crying out loud!” His eyes widened once he realized what he’d said. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Don’t bring up the living situation _now_ of all times. Now John would feel even more awkward when he eventually had to break the news of his impending move to Sherlock.

 

To his surprise though John only gave him a fond if not exasperated smile. “With the kind of injuries you have its safer and more convenient to stay in hospital for the time being. I promise we’ll go home when it’s a bit safer but until then it’s better if you stay put.” Sherlock tried his best to look pouty though he swore he felt his heart take a physically leap when John called 221B home. In fact, he knows his heart sped up because he could hear it on the heart monitor. How embarrassing. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm it down before John or Lestrade noticed the irregularity.

 

“Don’t worry about Moriarty getting anywhere near your flat either. Sally and a team of officers are already over there keeping watch over the place in case he decides to pop by for a visit.” Lestrade reassured them, though Sherlock merely scoffed.

 

“How reassuring,” he drawled in the most sarcastic tone he could muster. As if Anderson and Donovan were competent enough to so much as _inconvenience_ Moriarty. If the consulting criminal wanted in to 221B then he would get in one way or another. The thought sent a chill through Sherlocks body.

 

John instantly caught sight of the chill but thankfully misread it. “You cold? I could ring a nurse for another blanket.” Sherlock shook his head.

 

“No, I’m fine. Could use some more water though,” his dry throat had instantly reappeared at the mention of Moriarty; in fact his whole mouth had suddenly gone dry.

 

“No problem,” John assured him as he pressed a little button next to the bed which was apparently used to summon a nurse because in less than a minute a short, wiry nurse with hair that would have looked right at home on an emo’s MySpace account in 2004 popped through the door.

 

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” he said quite gladly to Sherlock.

 

“Mind if we get a bit more water?” John asked politely and held the empty cup out for the boy to take. The nurse nodded and flipped his black fringe out of his eyes as he took the cup.

 

“Of course. I’ll bring the doctor back with me too. He has a lot he wants to discuss with you Mr. Holmes,” he didn’t add anything else as he left the room. The small space seemed to ring with silence as none of the three men seemed to know what to say. Eventually Sherlock decided the awkwardness was too much and broke the silence himself.

 

“I assume Mycroft is the reason we’re in an upgraded room?” Both John and Greg seemed to both deflate in relief at the break in silent tension.

 

“Yeah, he got here same time as us, nosy git. Immediately made sure you got this room.” John said this with a twist of amusement.

 

“Kept twirling that umbrella of his around and barking orders at the staff. Why the hell does he always have that bloody umbrella with him anyways? It isn’t even raining today.” Sherlock snorted at Greg’s genuine bemusement over Mycroft’s choice in accessory.

 

“Thinks it makes him look cool. He got it as a present from an “influential government official” he quoted with sloppy air quotes, in his twenties. Or at least that’s what he says, but I never could understand why a high-ranking government worker would gift someone with an umbrella. He hasn’t let go of the thing since. He used to take it in the shower with him.” All three men shared a serious glance before bursting out into laughter. The thought of Mycroft Holmes bringing an umbrella into the shower was just enough to crack the remainder of their nerves and they couldn’t seem to stop giggling. It felt good. To finally laugh a bit with no awkwardness or tension or hidden guilt, though of course, nothing lasts forever and happiness is ever fleeting. No sooner did they catch their breath that the doctor walked in with the nurse from before and suddenly the somber mood of reality came back to them. The nurse walked over and handed Sherlock the cup of water with a smile before exiting the room again. The three men focused all their attention now on the doctor.

 

“Nice to see you awake, Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Richards.”

 

“When exactly will I be able to go home?” Sherlock didn’t bother with pleasantries. He never had before and he wasn’t exactly planning to start now. Surprisingly Dr. Richards didn’t look taken back at all and instead just gave him an amused grin.

 

“Straight shooter I see. You’re brother did warn me about that,” he chuckled jovially for a moment while looking down at his clipboard. “Unfortunately, as an answer to your question, it will still be quite a while until you can be released. We’d like to keep you in our care for about two weeks, give or take a bit.” Sherlock let out a small sigh if relief. He had feared it would be much longer.

 

“Is there a chance of an earlier release date if you know that I live with a medical professional?”

 

“We’ll keep that in mind though we would prefer for you to stay hospitalized during the first couple weeks of recovery. It will help us monitor your vitals and caloric intake more easily along with seeing how well your body heals.” Dr. Richards looked down at his chart and flipped through the pages casually. “As for the actual extent of your injuries, you were quite lucky. You’re friends managed to get you here within less then three hours of the burns taking place which helped prevent further scarring or tissue damage, none of your cuts or nails have gotten infected yet, though there’s still plenty of time for that so we’ll need to keep an eye on it. The surgery to excise the necrotic tissue near your burns went smoothly as well. I expect that if we continue to treat your wounds carefully and you don’t push yourself to hard the recovery process will go very well.”

 

“Hear that? Don’t push yourself to hard. In other words no chasing criminals around, no fist fights, and no forgetting to eat.” Sherlock made a face at Johns mini lecture but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

 

“We also ran tests for any STD’s or STI’s,” Doctor Richards said with a quick glance of sympathy at his patient. Sherlock felt the colour drain out of his face. He had almost forgotten about that part of the ordeal, but now that it was brought up it seemed to be all that he could think about.

 

What was he doing acting so casually in the first place? He could only imagine what Lestrade and John must be thinking of him right now. He felt his whole body fill with shame and all of a sudden all he wanted to do was hide under the thin hospital blanket so that no one could see him. So that no one could see through him and see how disgusting he really was. He felt mortified.

 

However, Sherlock Holmes was never one to hide and instead put on his most haughty face and spoke with his voice dripping disdain. To the rest of the world he would look utterly above all this.

 

“Was that really necessary?” Dr. Richards spared him another look of pity and it made Sherlock’s insides curl.

 

“Yes, it was, I’m sorry to say. We make sure to do that in all rape cases, including oral rape. I know it’s unpleasant to think about but these sort of diseases are highly contagious and you can never be too careful, though luckily all the tests came back negative, so you are perfectly healthy in that respect.” He had never even thought of it as rape before the Doctor had said it. It wasn’t really? Was it? It’s not like Moriarty physically forced him too. He had another option after all. It was either carving out his eyes or getting on his knees. Hardly a decision but it was a decision nonetheless. He had willingly done it, so therefore it couldn’t qualify as rape.

 

These were all the thoughts he had been desperately trying to avoid since he had awoken and he felt a burning resentment towards the doctor for making him think about it all. For making him realize how repulsive he really was. He felt sick.

 

“I believe that’s about all I have to share with you at this point in time, though I will be sure to let you know if anything new comes up.”

“Ta.” John nodded towards him before the doctor turned around and departed from the room. The silence in the room was deafening now. Sherlock could tell that both John and Greg wanted to say something, they kept looking at each other as if communicating telepathically but they didn’t voice any of their thoughts which unfortunately left Sherlock to fall deeper and deeper into his own mind which had quite a bit to say.

 

 _You’re disgusting,_ the voice in his head screamed at him. _You’re dirty. Vile. And now they both know it. Did you really think you could do something so disgusting and have them just forget it? They will always remember. They won’t be able to so much as look at you without imagining you taking Moriarty’s cock down your throat._

 

Sherlock knew it was true. How could they ever forget that? How could they ever _forgive_ that? John had stuck with him through a lot, even Greg had faithfully stuck with him through all of his overdoses and stints in rehab when they had met but Sherlock knew better than anyone that everyone had a breaking point. He had spent his whole life testing people’s breaking points, be it his parents, nanny’s, teachers or short-lived friendships Sherlock had always pushed everyone he knew to their breaking point. It was positively ridiculous of him to think that he wouldn’t bring John and Lestrade to their breaking points as well. It was practically inevitable.

 

All of a sudden it was too much. His head hurt and his throat was sore. His whole body hurt. He could feel John and Lestrade’s nervous glances. He couldn’t stop imagining the feeling of Jim Moriarty’s hand in his hair, stroking his curls as though they were lovers, his penis between his lips and his hot come sliding greedily down his throat. One gagging cough was all he got in warning before he was vomiting in his mouth.

 

Luckily John had seen it coming and grabbed a rubbish bin, hurriedly handing it to Sherlock so he had somewhere to release the bile that wasn’t his own lap.

 

Sherlock was ashamed of himself. Barfing into a rubbish bin after having his mouth and body violated by the man he hated most on this earth while his two closest friends watched. How would any of them ever get over this? They wouldn’t. As he threw up violently into the rubbish bin he knew this for certain. None of them would ever forget this and Greg and John, John especially, would never forgive him for it. Greg may seem forgiving now but that was just because he felt guilty for some imagined reason. Once he came to his senses and realized that Sherlock was the one to blame for all this he would leave. And so would John.

 

Eventually the vomiting slowed until all Sherlock was coughing up was bitter stomach acid and even that faded until it was only dry gags that tore at his already sore throat. He stayed hunched over the bin, breathing heavily and thoroughly despising himself.

 

“Here, let me take that…” Sherlock tried to resist as John took the bin away from him but he was tired and sore and his muscles were quite done with cooperating with his demands, so John barely had to tug hard at all to get the bin out of his grasp. John placed the vomit filled bucket next to his bed and grabbed something on the bedside table. “Try and drink some of this.” John handed him a new cup of water and he reluctantly drank some. He swished a bit in his mouth and spit it out back into the bin before downing the rest. On the bright side his mouth now tasted of nothing but vomit. He didn’t taste Jim Moriarty any longer.

 

“Sorry about that.” He whispered quietly into the cup, his own voice grating on his nerves and his head hurting from the violent coughing he had done while vomiting. John and Greg’s faces looked grim and made Sherlock feel like an insect under a microscope.

 

“You don’t need to apologize, Sherlock.” Greg assured him. The three men stood and sat there respectively, the room once again filled with that god awful tension before Greg sucked in a large breath and reluctantly spoke.

 

“I better be going I think. I should really be checking up on Anderson and Donovan and I’m sure the two of you could use some time alone.” Sherlocks insides froze. What did he mean by that? Why would they need time alone? Maybe John had told Greg earlier about his plans to move out and after that awful display Sherlock just made the DI figured John wanted to get it out as soon as possible.

 

“Yeah, sure Greg. Thanks.” John smiled weakly at Lestrade.

 

“I’ll check in again tomorrow. Uh, bye.” He waved before exiting the room. As soon as the door shut John let out a long pained sigh and sat once again on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

 

“How are you feeling?” John asked for the second time that day.

 

“I already told you I was fine.” John shook his head and the sad little smile on his face made Sherlocks heart hurt, which was unfair really. Wasn’t enough of him hurting already? Why did John have to go and make the one part of him that was unscathed hurt?

 

“No. I know you said that before, but I mean how are you really?”

 

“John really. I’m f-“

 

“Don’t say that you’re fine!” It was the first time that John had raised his voice since Sherlock had woken up in hospital. Sherlock hated when John got angry but he considered himself lucky that he hadn’t lost his temper much earlier, considering.

 

John let out another loud, strained sigh and ran his hands through his disheveled blond hair. He was beautiful. Even sitting in a hospital room looking tired and sad and irritated John Watson looked like a work of art. He should get away from Sherlock fast. If he wasn’t careful Sherlock would ruin him and Sherlock would never forgive himself if he were the one to break John Watson for good.

 

“Just, please Sherlock, honestly how are you? And don’t try to sell me that bloody ‘fine’ bullshit. There’s no way you could be _fine_ after that. After what he did to you.” John was clenching his teeth again and his fists were clenched. This, Sherlock knew, was his inner soldier coming out. The man that had invaded Afghanistan and had ‘bad days’ where he wasn’t just healing his fellow soldiers but adding to the body count. This was the man that had shot that cabbie through a window the first night they had met. The restless adrenaline junkie that had instantly connected with Sherlock. He felt choked up at seeing John like this, so caring and kind and protective (why protective? He should be disgusted) that he had to change the subject. He had to run away.

 

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” This was a good choice of words he decided, seeing as John’s fist and jaw unclenched and instead he looked more confused than angry.

 

“Keep saying what?”

 

“’What he did to me’” Sherlock quoted. “Greg said that earlier as well and it made just as little sense then as it did when you said it just now. Technically he didn’t do anything to me. Well, other than kidnap me of course,” he added the last part as an afterthought. He knew he was rambling. It was probably the bloody morphine. He should really have a talk with John about getting his dosage turned down. John was gawking at him, looking slightly horrified and, again, painfully sad. Sherlock hated that it seemed like all he could do was make John sad.

 

“Sherlock…” John spoke slowly, as if talking to a small child who wasn’t understanding a difficult concept. “He is the reason you’re sitting in a hospital bed. He’s the reason you have third degree burns all over the top of your torso. He-“ John meant to go on but Sherlock didn’t let him. He could feel himself getting angry. All this was his fault! Why wasn’t John getting that? Why didn’t Greg? Why did no one seem to understand that this is what Sherlock deserved? He had lost Moriarty’s game and this was his punishment. The longer thay kept acting this forgiving the angrier they would be when they inevitably came to their senses and realized how wrong Sherlock had been. How foolish and careless he had been and how they had nearly gotten hurt because of it.

 

“No! He didn’t do that to me John. I did that to me. I burned myself. I cut myself. That was all me. Every bit of it.”

 

“No. It-it wasn’t all you. He made you do that.”

 

“Stop being so naïve, John,” Sherlock spat. “You can’t actually make anyone do anything. Especially me! Do you really think he could’ve made me do anything I really didn’t want to do?” Both of their tempers were rising now. Sherlock could see all John’s telltale signs of anger. Clenched jaw, his left fist clenching and unclenching, deep measured breaths, a puffed out chest. Sherlock welcomed every bit of it. _This_ is what he wanted. He wanted John’s anger. He deserved it.

 

“Sherlock.” His voice was low, quiet. He was trying so hard to control his anger that his voice came out muted and shaky, starkly contrasting his bodies dangerous calmness. Angry-John always reminded Sherlock of the phrase ‘the calm before the storm’. “You didn’t want to do any of that! He put you in a position where it was the only option you had. I understand that, believe me, but there is no way you wanted to do any of those things!”

 

“I made the choices John! I didn’t have to do anything. I had other choices I could have made and I didn't!”

 

“What other choices?” John shot up from the bed now, standing over Sherlock and positively fuming. “Letting a sniper shoot one of us? Was that your other choice? Or maybe you mean the last thing he made you do? Because I know you didn’t want to do that.” If John were anyone else he would probably be shaking right now with how angry he is, but as it is he is perfectly still. Not a single tremor in sight. Sherlock wishes he could say the same for himself.

 

This was the one thing he didn’t want to talk about. The one thing that he did that he didn’t even want to think about and now John was throwing it in his face, and rightly so. John had been all too forgiving and passive towards this particular indiscretion.

 

“That was an… unpleasant choice,” he’s not screaming anymore, his voice has taken on a quieter more vulnerable tone. He hates it, and hates himself for allowing it to happen. “But it was still a choice, John.” They are silent now, John still looking irritated and confused and Sherlock feeling just plain sad. This is it. This is the moment he has been fearfully anticipating. This is the moment where John tells him enough is enough. That he can’t take this anymore. That Sherlock is disgusting, a freak just like everyone said and that he can’t take this anymore. This is the moment where John finally tells him he’s moving out. He might as well start them off.

 

“John… I,” he pauses trying to delay the inevitable. “I understand if you want to move out.” Silence rings for,

 

_One_

_Two_

_Three_ beats.

 

“What? What the hell are you on about now?” Sherlock sighs. It’s so like John to do this. To put aside his own feelings to spare Sherlock’s but he can’t let him keep doing that. He needs to be selfless and help John for once.

 

“I know that you will be wanting to vacate Baker Street. I just want you too know I understand why and there are no… hard feelings?” It comes out as a question though it wasn’t necessarily meant to be one. He’s utter rubbish at conversations like this, ones that involve actual emotion and _feelings_ but he knows John is just as bad and hates them just as much, so as his last friendly deed he will do this and make it easy on John. Let him know he is valid for wanting to get as far away from Sherlock as possible. If Sherlock could run away from himself he would too. “I will of course help in any way you need, if you want my help that is. And I will make sure Mycroft is at your disposal as well, should you need him.”

 

“Sherlock? I really don’t know… what?” Poor John. He’s trying so hard to be a good friend even after Sherlock has proved to be so unqualified for such affections.

 

“I know that you likely don’t wish to be anywhere near me any longer, after seeing how… repulsive, I can be.”

 

“Sherlock. Stop.” Sherlock did stop then and stared at his lap in shame, waiting for the final hammer to drop.

 

“Look at me.” John demanded but Sherlock shook his head in refusal. This was a hard enough conversation without having to see John’s face during it. To see what his best friend was feeling. That would surely be too much for his heart to take.

“Sherlock, please, just. Look up at me.” Sherlock hated John Watson. Hated that he could never refuse him anything. He hated that he was being forced to lift his face and look John in his eyes, which were currently red and glossy. The closest he had seen John come to actual tears since their friendship had begun.

 

“First off, let’s just get this ridiculous idea right out of the way. I am not moving out.” Sherlock released a shaky breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. “I have no intention of moving out of Baker Street. Not ever really. I don’t know where you got that idea from but it’s rubbish. Complete rubbish.” John sat back down on the bed now, all traces of anger clearly snuffed out by now. “Secondly, you are not repulsive. Not even close. You could never do anything to make me think otherwise. Why would you even think that?”

 

“Don’t be daft, John,” Sherlock meant to say this more spitefully than he did, but he was just so relieved John said he wasn’t moving out that he couldn’t find it in him and it came out sounding much softer than intended. “Even you can’t deny that what I did was… unpleasant. Not to mention I was the reason all of you were there in the first place. I… I would understand if it was something you couldn’t get past.”

 

“Unpleasant? Of course it was unpleasant, unpleasant for all of us too watch but unpleasant for you most of all. And something I couldn’t get past?” John sounded utterly incredulous. “Sherlock let’s get this straight. Moriarty assaulted you. It was non-consensual. Bottom line. Shh, I don’t care what you have to say about that. I was there and I know you were not a willing party,” he cut the detective off before he could say otherwise. “Moriarty was the one that kidnapped all of us. He was the one who orchestrated the whole thing and trained snipers on us. We can agree on that, yeah?” Sherlock nodded slowly.

 

“Yes,” he agreed, still somewhat reluctant to see it this way. “He did but-“

 

“Hush. No buts. He kidnapped and threatened our lives, all our lives, yours included. He gave you impossible choices where you did what you thought was best. You – God, you were incredibly brave through that Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock had no clue what to say about that, but John was clearly trying very hard to make an effort (this talking stuff is not easy for him after all) and so he had to make an effort back as well.   


“I… I don’t know what to say to that,” he answered honestly. “I don’t see how giving your enemy a fellatio could be construed as brave.” There. He said it. He finally mentioned the elephant in the room that they’ve been dancing around. Small ticks of anger were reappearing in John’s demeanor. Sherlock hoped it was anger at Moriarty and not him.

 

“Sherlock, listen, I cannot even imagine what that must have been like to do. I, God, I don’t think I could’ve done that. What you did. You were incredibly selfless, and yes, _brave_.” The words sounded ridiculous coming out of John’s mouth. Of course he could have done what Sherlock did. John was the most selfless, kind man John had ever had the good fortune of knowing. If he could do it John most certainly could have, he would’ve no doubt done it _better_. He would’ve found a way to get the same end result (everyone safe) without humiliating and embarrassing himself.  

 

“You were dealt a completely crap situation and went through all that shit to protect us, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you went through that and I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to help you. I should have done more, done _something_.”

 

“John…” John was breathing heavy and looked miserable. Him apologizing to Sherlock for something that was so completely out of his control made the pangs in his heart return full blast. “That’s ridiculous. You couldn’t have done anything more than you did. You are not at fault for any of that.” John looked back up at him and gave a small, sad smile.

 

“I guess I’m no more responsible for it than you are.” Sherlock gave a small smile back, feeling like he was understanding John a bit better now. He still didn’t see it the same way, not at all, but he could at least understand where his friend was coming from.

 

“I suppose we’re at a bit of a stalemate then.”

 

“I suppose so.” John agreed.

 

All at once Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted. This had been a highly physically and emotionally taxing day and he was finally starting to feel it’s full effects. His eyelids were starting to feel uncomfortably heavy and the cotton in his brain was coming back full force.

 

“John?” He called out feeling panicked. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He and John were finally alone and talking.

 

“Shh, it's alright. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

“Promise?” Sherlock blamed this ludicrously vulnerable question on the morphine and torture-induced exhaustion.

 

“I promise.” His body relaxed at John’s affirmative and was just starting to let the peaceful siren song of deep sleep take him over when he felt something warm and rough encase his hand and his eyes flew open, immediately searching out his hand which was covered in John’s own gentle grip.

 

“Sorry,” John flustered and began moving his hand away. “I just thought…”

 

“No!” Sherlock reacted without thinking, already missing the warmth of John’s hand. “You don't have to… I well. You can put your hand back. It’s… nice.”

 

“Really?” John asks, though he’s already placing his hand gently back atop Sherlocks. ‘It’s not hurting you at all?” Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“No, it’s, um, surprisingly comforting. Thank you.” He can feel himself getting flustered now and wills the blush in his face to go down. John chuckles softly.

 

“Anytime.” Now that that little dilemma has been solved Sherlock succumbs to the soft warmth of sleep.

 

\---

 

When Sherlock awakens once again the doctors and medical staff get to work. They talk to him about skin grafts which will have to be done on his shoulders and arms, they discuss release dates and earliest time he will be allowed to go home (the time they give him is much to long and he makes a note to request Mycroft’s assistance in shortening it) and they send a psyche consult to him which proves to be rather entertaining. Sherlock had insisted that a psyche consult was hardly necessary but after John and Dr. Richards had pointed out that his wounds were not only born from torture but also self-inflicted and the fact that there was sexual trauma involved (which Sherlock vehemently disagreed with but stopped his arguing after one look from John) he relented and allowed the woman to talk to him. He spent most of the time insulting her degree in medicine and mental health practice and the rest of the time being sarcastic and overly snippy. By the end of it he was sure she would sign anything just to get him out of the hospital and away from her, which worked just fine for him.

 

His days in the hospital were monotonous and boring. Nurses came in and changed his bandages and checked on his wounds to make sure no infection was occurring and he was forced to eat three square meals a day and snacks. It was torturous and though he was far from religious he found himself praying to return to Baker Street.

 

He got a surprising number of visitors. Greg came back the next day with Anderson and Donovan which had proved to be _spectacularly_ awkward. They had both given him strange well-wishes and what Sherlock thought may have been (and John later confirmed) a thank you. He didn’t really think it was necessary but he excepted it with minimal fuss to get them out of his room quicker. Donovan also hadn’t called him freak once. In fact, neither her nor Anderson had thrown a single insult at him which was thoroughly uncomfortable and made Sherlock all the more excited to get back on his feet so they could all go back to hating each other. Greg had continued to visit each day but thankfully Anderson and Donovan stayed away after that.

 

He got a few other visitors as well. Molly, Mrs. Hudson (who brought Sherlock’s favourite cream puffs from Speedy’s and spent the whole time fawning over him which he would never admit he actually enjoyed) and Mycroft. His brother had only stopped by once on the second day he was in hospital to deliver some of his things and check on the progress of everything.

 

All in all it was boring and by the time two weeks of his earlier agreed upon three week stay in hospital were up he was ready to tear his hair out.

 

The one good thing that seemed to come out of his extended hospital stay was that he and John were getting quite a lot of alone time. John refused to go home and so the nurses had set up a cot in the room so he didn’t have to sleep on the uncomfortable chair the whole time. Of course, they always had quite a lot of alone time at Baker Street as well but things seemed different here. They had grown to have quite a bit more casual touching than they had ever taken part in back in 221B. After the first night where John had held Sherlock’s hand as he fell asleep Sherlock had woken to find John still holding him, stroking the exposed skin softly with his thumb and it never really stopped. Of course a lot of touch was necessary what with Sherlock being incapacitated and all. John would carefully place his finger tips on the small of the younger mans back when he needed help lifting his body out of bed, he helped with changing his bandages and cleaning his wounds and even shaving in place of the nurses from time to time and he had even helped Sherlock change a few times at the beginning of his stay when his fingers were still tender, sensitive and very very sore.

 

Though medical touches aside, it seemed as if they were always finding excuses to touch each other. If John were passing Sherlock something their fingers would touch and they would both let their skin linger against the others just a tad too long to be considered usual. When talking John would randomly reach out and take a hold of Sherlocks hand, his thumb gently caressing the skin on the back of his hand just as he had done the first night. Sometimes John would be sitting beside him reading and a strand of blonde hair would fall out of place and bother Sherlock until the brunette would eventually decide to just reach out and brush it back, which would usually leave John looking up at him and giving him a small, fond smile. These sort of lingering touches happened occasionally at Baker Street but something about the hospital seemed to make them increase rather significantly

 

They kept up this newfound peace and somewhat domestic routine until around the fourth day they spent in hospital when John tried to broach the subject of Moriarty again. Up until this point they hadn’t discussed much more of what they had the first day. They tended to stay away from the topic of Moriarty all together and slowly Sherlock felt himself relax as John and him picked up this new routine of theirs. He no longer felt like John was just going to up and leave and he allowed himself to relax and just enjoy the time he was getting to spend with John. He still felt disgusted whenever he remembered the final round of Moriarty’s game, but he was getting better at hiding it away in his mind palace and not thinking about it. But of course that couldn’t last and one afternoon while they were both holed up in the now familiar hospital room John abruptly placed his book he had been reading on an end table and gave his full attention to Sherlock.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” John started, his face and tone somber. Sherlock looked up from his own book and regarded John with his full attention. Even though his fear of John up and leaving had quelled significantly in the past few days he was still nervously waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even now he felt a sick dollop of unease at what John might be about to say.

 

“What is it?” John takes a little longer, as though trying to gather his thoughts up. Sherlock felt himself become queasier and queasier the longer the silence stretched on.

 

“When Moriarty captured us, the last round. The one where he, you know, told you to use that razor on your eyes. Were you actually going to do that?” Sherlock felt half relieved that John wasn’t making some sort of confession that he had decided to move out after all and half horrified that John was bringing this subject up again. Sherlock thought back to that moment. At the time he had hesitated slightly at first but it took no more than a few seconds to realize how obvious the choice really was. Even now Sherlock had no problem making the decision.

 

“Yes. I was.” They both fell into silence, John taking in Sherlocks answer and Sherlock cataloguing John’s reaction to it. John had done an impressive job of keeping a pokerface. He looked deep in thought and outwardly stoic but Sherlock had dedicated more time than he would ever admit to cataloguing all of John’s many facial expressions and emotional tells. Under the stoic façade John looked vulnerable.

 

“Why would you do that?” John spoke up after what felt like forever. His face was raw now. Confusion and sadness present throughout his whole body.

 

“I could never allow that to happen to you.”

 

“And yet you’d no problem doing it to yourself.”

 

“It’s different.”

 

“How exactly is that?! Because from where I’m sitting Sherlock, it looks pretty darn alike.” His earlier stoicism was gone now, replaced by snapping anger.

 

“You are…” He paused trying to find the right words and the strength to give them voice. “You are important John.”

 

“And what? You aren’t?!”

 

“No it’s…” He sucks in a deep breath. “You are important to _me_ , John.” He pauses. “I… I have never been the type to make friends easily. Though people are generally open books to me in moments, the social proceedings that must take place in order to properly befriend them have always been something of an enigma. You… you are the only person I’ve ever been able to call a ‘best friend’. That is important to me. I’ve lived with my eye sight my whole life and I’ve lived with you for a mere part of my life but given the choice I know which one would make the greater impact on me if I were to lose it.” It’s a simple answer. It’s true as well. Sherlock would give up anything for John Watson and that includes any or all of his five senses. John, though, apparently disagrees with the sentiment as he lets a long sorrowful sigh trail out of his mouth.

 

“That’s. That’s um, wow. Okay.” John is visibly flustered and seems to be at a loss for words. “That’s… that’s really, pretty bloody incredible actually. No, well, not incredible, but…” “Okay. Look. So this friendship thing is clearly a bit of an unknown area for you, yeah?” Sherlock nods slowly, not sure where John is going with this. “Well then I’m going to have to teach you some things, so that this,” he motions towards Sherlocks broken form laying in the hospital bed, “never happens again. Okay. So, friendship, especially best friends, which yes we are, is a two way street. It’s about give and take.”

 

“John, if anything our ‘give and take’ balance would be leaning rather heavily in your favour-“ 

 

“No, see, you just admitted you would give up your ability to _see_ for me Sherlock. That does a hell of a lot to balance the scales, okay? Friendship isn’t about martyring yourself to benefit the other person. That’s… that’s incredibly selfless yeah? But just… not good for my mental health.”

 

“John, don’t you see?” Sherlocks beginning to get irritated. Why can’t John understand? “I was the reason we were there in the first place. _Me_. If it weren’t for Moriarty’s personal obsession with me than none of you would have been put in harms way in the first place. None of the things I did back there were ‘selfless’ or ‘incredible’ or the act of a martyr. They were my responsibility.” John shakes his head, looking disbelieving. 

 

“See? Just the fact that you even see it that way is just… it wasn’t your responsibility, Sherlock, or whatever other silly excuses your using. We’re all friends. You, me, Greg… Maybe not Anderson and Sally but that’s neither here nor there. We’re friends and friends help each other through shit. Friendship doesn’t involve the constant sacrificing of one person. In those situations we’re meant to - to help each other. You get it?” Sherlock must look as baffled as he feels because after John musses up his hair again he continues. “Okay, let’s do this then. You remember when Greg told you to let him take his round?” Sherlock nods. “That was him being your friend. Trying to shoulder some of the burden so it didn’t all land on you.”

 

“But Lestrade wasn’t the intended recipient of it. It was me Moriarty was trying to hurt.”

 

“That’s not the point. The point is that friends - in times of crisis - are there to help each other through it. Work as a team of sorts, I guess, to help each other out. We do that so that one of us doesn’t end up in hospital while the others feel like right wankers for not doing anything about it.” Sherlock feels outraged. He never intended for either Lestrade nor John to feel negatively about their own actions. 

 

“You and Lestrade couldn’t have done anything, John! It’s not your fault that I’m here, it’s mi-“ 

 

“If you finish that sentence the way I think you’re going to I’m going to kick your posh arse, injuries or no.” Sherlock falls quiet. “Let’s get this well and fucking straight, alright?” Johns cheeks are flushed with anger. “It was not your fault. It was not your fault that we were kidnapped. It was not your fault that you got tortured. Whether someone else administered the torture or not you were still put in a situation you had no control over and were hurt. The only person who has any blame in this situation is that bastard Moriarty. Okay? He’s the one who kidnapped us, he’s the one who arranged your torture and he’s the one who bloody assaulted you and tried to humiliate you.” John’s nostrils are flared out a bit and his breathing is uneven and heavy. Sherlock sort of sees where John is coming from, it makes sense in a way, but it still doesn’t feel right. 

 

“I - I understand where you’re coming from, John. And I’ll admit that I may have not had any control in all of us being brought there or… much of what happened during, but it still isn’t logical that you or Lestrade should have had to go through any of the punishments made up for me.” John shrugs. 

 

“That’s friendship, mate. It isn’t always logical. But logic or no I need to know that this won’t happen again. You need to. You just need to learn to trust us more. To trust _me_ more. Because you can’t do this again Sherlock. If I ever… If I ever have to sit next to you in a hospital room again knowing that I could have done something to prevent it that will… It won’t be good. I can’t handle it. So please, Sherlock, for your own well-being and mine promise you won’t pull the damn martyr card again.”

 

“I… I don’t know if I can promise something like that.” He answers honestly. “But… knowing the profound… psychological effect it has on you, and taking in the fact that friends are supposed to help the other I will try to behave differently should it ever occur again.” The visible relief that washes over John after this sentence is gratifying but all too quickly wiped away by what Sherlock adds to it. “But I would still never allow you to lose your eye sight or life for my sake.” John let’s out an all-suffering sigh and opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock, feeling a surge of righteousness, cuts him off. “If you had been in my position today can you honestly say you would have acted any differently? If you had been sitting in my chair instead, facing the decisions I was faced with, would you have told Moriarty to go ahead and blind me instead?” Sherlock can see his words hit John. The army doctor looks gutted. Before he even lowers his head and reluctantly replies Sherlock knows what his answer will be. 

 

“No. No, you’re right. I would have done exactly what you had. Or at least, I think I would. I suppose I hope I would. I don’t know if I would have… handled it quite as well as you did but yeah, I’d try.” He let’s out a pained breath. “I may be a bloody hypocrite but still. In the future just, try to remember you have me to rely on, okay?”

 

“I have never doubted your reliability, John.” 

 

“Well, good.” John nods. “I - thank you. For answering me honestly. And for what you did earlier. It didn’t go unappreciated. And for what it’s worth, I swear that the next time we see Moriarty I’m going to bloody _murder him_ for what he did today. I swear it."

 

“Thank you. I look forward to it.”

 

“You and me both, mate.” They share a smile and out of nowhere Sherlock feels an uncontrollable wave of affection burst through him at the sight of this lovely, fierce, caring man so determined to show Sherlock kindess. He loves John Watson so much in this moment it is like a tangible _aching_ in the pit of his chest. This man who knows how to heal bodies and break them and seems determined to do both to Sherlock. He doesn’t know what he ever did to have John Watson fall in his life but he is beyond thankful to whatever Gods exist that he did.

 

Slowly they both go back to their earlier activities, Sherlock looking out the window and John reading his book. Though if they are both spending more time stealing glances at each other than doing much else, it remains unbeknownst to them.

 

Maybe being in hospital isn’t so bad after all.

 

\---

 

The day that Sherlock finally get’s his morphine turned down and his brain comes fully back in order is the day the delivery arrives.

 

It’s a rather extravagant bouquet of red roses followed along with a slim card with elegant scrawl across it. A pretty nurse named Louise brings it in with her bright pink lips pulled into a repulsively genuine smile.

 

“Delivery for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” She announces cheerily sitting it down on the bedside cabinet. She stands back from it and let’s out a low whistle. “My my! I wish I had someone who cared about me enough to send such a stunning thing. My boyfriend probably wouldn’t even think to bring me a leaf.” She let’s out a soft chuckle before turning to Sherlock and winking. “Someone sure must love you.” At this point she turns around and flutters out of the room. John straightens up from where he’s been standing next to the window on the other side of the room and walks over so he’s standing beside Sherlock’s bed and staring at the bouquet. His face is filled with irritation and he’s looking at the great big thing with suspicion.

 

“Who do you think it’s from?”

 

“D’nno…” Sherlock mumbles from where he had just been flirting with an afternoon nap on the bed. Carefully, yet not carefully enough to avoid making himself wince in pain, he lifts his upper body up so he’s propped in a seated position. He reaches over and snags the card from where it’s nestled snugly amid the red roses and prickly thorns. He begins to read and feels his face drain of colour.

 

_I just can’t get my mind off of you! Or that **mouth**! I chose these flowers in particular because they reminded me oh-so-much of all that pretty red blood you spilt for me. Hurry up and get better darling. Daddy can’t wait for our next game together._

_Xo and love always, Jim_

 

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” Sherlock doesn’t answer him and just hands the card over silently. He watches as John reads it over and his confusion and hostility quickly turns to fury. After he’s gone through it all he stares at the card as if it had just kicked his mother. Sherlock silently agrees and feels somewhat the same.

 

“Oh, that bastard.” John growls. All in the span of a few seconds John has darted across the room, grabbed his phone and is viciously dialing a number. It barely rings once before the person on the other end picks up.

 

“Mycroft, why the bloody fuck is a bouquet from Jim Moriarty sitting in Sherlock’s hospital room?” He goes quiet, presumably listening to whatever Mycroft has to say in defense. John scoffs. “Yes. It was delivered just now by one of the nurses.” Pause. “Yes, I’m bloody sure it was from him Mycroft! He left a bloody note!” A shorter pause this time, followed by Johns clipped tone. “Apparently your security isn’t as good as you think it is, then.” More silence. “Fine. Just get it out of here quick will you?” John demands before hanging up and tossing his abused phone aside. Sherlock is slightly surprised at the brusqueness John is currently showing towards Mycroft. John has never been scared of his older brother and he makes no moves to act otherwise but he is always polite with the older man. Always courteous. Though just now John was far from courteous. He sounded, quite frankly, pissed off.

 

“Your git of a brother is sending someone to get that thing out of here.” He gestures towards the ornate display of flowers as if it is some grotesque deformity. “You okay?” His face which had been set in a venomous frown just moments ago was now smoothed out and gentle as he regarded Sherlock. Sherlock nearly felt himself blush at the sudden attentiveness.

 

“Yes.” He lied. He doesn’t want to put any of John’s hackles up but he is not okay. He feels violated and vulnerable sitting in a hospital bed where Moriarty could have easy access to him whenever he felt the desire. Mycroft has security installed all around the hospital of course and even Lestrade has arranged for a certain level of security and serveillance as well but in the end it’s all useless. With the kind of resources a man like Moriarty has he would have no problem getting a contact in the hospital to sneak him in. Hell, he could even just bribe one of the workers, that’s probably how he got the flowers in through security in the first place. Sherlock feels a shiver go through his body. It’s an unpleasant thing, to realize how vulnerable you are. John, ever attentive and thoughtful John, catches sight of Sherlock momentary weakness and plonks himself down beside Sherlock’s battered body, twisted his torso slightly so he can more comfortably grasp Sherlock’s torn up hand. His touch feels gentle and the feeling of John’s calloused hand covering his is monumentally comforting. The feel of John’s small strong hand covering his is starting to become beautifully familiar.

 

“Hey, you don’t have to do that. Put up a front like that. It was a stupid question, anyways. Of course you’re not okay. If you were you wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Sherlock finds himself shaking his head.

 

“You aren’t stupid, John. I’m fine really. I just hate being here. Hospitals have never been a place I feel particularly comfortable and I’m afraid the current circumstances aren’t doing anything to help that. I want to go back to Baker Street.” He really does. He misses their flat and his experiments and Mrs. Hudson. He misses clients and cases and racing through the streets of London with John at his heel. Sitting weeks in a hospital bed is a nightmare.

 

“I know you do. So do I. We just have to wait a bit longer, till your better enough to leave.” It’s true, he can tell. John is a man of action. A doctor and a soldier. He, like Sherlock, craves danger and spurts of adrenaline. John has never been and will never be the sitting down type.

 

“Make it go quicker.” It sounds pathetically like a beg.

 

“I could if I would, believe me.” Sherlock does. He suspects he always will.

 

They stay like that, seated next to each other and grasping each others hands for comfort until one of Mycroft’s minions pops up without a world and takes Moriarty’s gift away. After they leave John goes to move off the bed, back to the other side of the room but Sherlock suddenly feels a spike of panic. That’s too far away. He doesn’t want to be that far from John. Not so far that he can’t see all the different coloured specs of blue in his eyes or the way the sun hits his hair or where he can’t easily reach out and feel the texture of his ugly wool jumper. He reaches out when John is just barely off the bed and latches on to his jumper, making John look back at him in surprise.

 

“Don’t go.” He sounds needy and desperate and he’s acting disgustingly clingy put he can’t help it. He’s in a hospital and his whole body is so sore, from both his injuries and his lack of movement. He needs John right now and right in this moment he doesn’t care if that makes him look needy.

 

“I won’t,” John shakes his head slowly. “God, I’m not going anywhere.” He crawls back onto the bed but this time he’s lying down next to Sherlock. He moves his hand off of Sherlock’s which makes the younger man nearly whine before he realizes John only moved it so he could relocate it to around his back, carefully avoiding any of the burnt or cut bits. “I’m right here. It’s okay.” He soaks up John’s comfort like a man dying of thirst and his whole body melts into Johns warm hold. They stay like this, holding each other and drifting around in their own thoughts until a nurse comes to deliver food and they reluctantly part.

 

\---

 

Although he was fully enjoying this new sort of intimacy with John he was still growing increasingly restless in hospital. The bright lights and constant sound of movement and machinery and doctors and nurses barging in constantly were getting to him. He had taken to verbally attacking the nurses whenever they came to tend to them and aggressively deducing anything he could about the doctors lives, which would in turn make John snap at him for being rude and they would both retreat into a strop.

 

He honestly wasn’t sure how much more he could take and then it all came to a head.

 

John was sitting beside the bed reading one of those dull crime books he, for some unfathomable reason, enjoys reading and Sherlock decided that spoiling all the plot twists and the ending he had deduced from reading the back cover and the first few pages was the best use of his time. He could tell John was getting just as irritated with the hospital as he was, and he finally gave up and agreed that they should message Mycroft and have Sherlock taken out of hospital care early.

 

“Mycroft you need to get him out of here.” John insisted into the phone. “He’s already started threatening the nurses and he’s made two doctors burst out of the room in tears. I don’t think the hospital can take much more of him.” John may have been exaggerating a tad (though not by much) but it seemed to prove effective.

 

After ten minutes of John talking to Mycroft and assuring him that he would be there to take care of Sherlock as long as need be the army doctor hung up and turned to Sherlock with a grin.

 

“Your brother said a car will be here in a half hour so you can officially stop terrorizing the nurses.”

 

True to his word, a non-descript black car pulled up outside of the hospital just as John was done signing all the papers for Sherlock’s early release and handed them over to the silently disapproving nurse. All they had to take home with them were two small bags of clothes and a few other belongings such as books which fit easily into the car and after John helped Sherlock into the back seat they took off for Baker Street a whole week earlier than planned. Sherlock felt like he was breathing easier for the first time since Moriarty had had him shoved into the back of a van.

 

\---

 

Mrs. Hudson was already waiting for them outside when they arrived in front of Baker Street.

 

“Oh, boys!” She cooed, hovering over them as John took their bags out of the car. “Your brother phoned to tell me the two of you would be home early. How wonderful! Baker Street just hasn’t been the same without the two of you. Far too quiet!” She leaned in to give Sherlock a hug but he hissed in pain when she pressed to hard on his still quite painful shoulders. “Oh, Sherlock dear, I’m so sorry! You poor thing. You two head right in and I’ll bring some tea and biscuits up in a mo’.”

 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson. That sounds excellent.”

 

“Oh, no trouble,” she assures giving John a delicate pat on the shoulder. “The least I can do really. Besides, I’m sure you two will need to do some grocery shopping. I doubt anything in your flat will be good after all this time,” she rants and raves, excitement and life flowing through her words as she heads inside to retrieve refreshments. Though as it turns out, they needn’t have worried about the food situation. As soon as they climb up the seventeen familiar steps to 221B they find a basket of fresh fruit, bakery bread, and vibrant vegetables sitting on the kitchen table along with a card.

 

_Welcome home gentlemen. John, I have informed the clinic that you will be absent until further notice. You will find any funds you would have received otherwise in your bank account. Consider this payment in regards to my brothers in-home care. If you need anything don’t hesitate to call._

  * _M_



 

“Well, at least it seems he’s good for something.” Sherlock drawls. John hums in agreement and proceeds to put away the basket of food while Sherlock heads back into the sitting room.

 

He hadn’t realized quite how much he had missed Baker Street until he was finally standing back in it. It smelled of Mrs. Hudsons lilac detergent and chemicals and that soft earthy scent of _home_. Sherlock breathed it in deep, relishing in the familiar and well missed scent.

 

“Nice to be back, isn’t it?” He turns towards John who is watching him from the kitchen doorway with a happy smirk on his face. Sherlock isn’t the only one who had missed home.

 

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees sauntering over to where John is and glances towards the table. “I’m behind on my experiments now, and it looks like Mycroft got rid of all the ones I was working on before.”

 

“Probably good, that. Most of them would have gone quite bad by now.” Sherlock hums along, already planning out his next line of experimentation. His thought process however is brought to a halt by John clearing his throat. Sherlock looks at him and is suddenly painfully aware of how close they are standing. So close that he can see John’s pores and feel the air from his breath. If he took just a half step forward their chests would be touching on each exhale. He gulps.

 

“Hello.” John says, that annoyingly happy, beautiful smirk still on his face.

 

“Hello.” Sherlock answers back, his voice dropping down to a frequency just above a whisper.

 

“It really is good to be back. It’s not really the same outside of Baker Street, is it?” Sherlock shook his head. He had been thinking the same thing. Although they may be fine and perfectly functioning outside of the doorstep to 221B they were both the most themselves when they were here. Just the two of them up and away from the rest of the world.

 

John sighed and looked down at the floor before lifting his eyes and staring directly into Sherlocks gaze. He looked nervous and his hands were perfectly steady. A dead give-away for when John was feeling anxious.

 

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for ages now. My own… experiment of sorts. I, well, I wasn’t sure how you would react to it before but I have a better idea now. I wanted to wait until we got back to Baker Street though. Didn’t feel right in the hospital. And with all that happened I didn’t want to move too fast and risk scaring you away.” Sherlock’s heart was beating fast and he felt slightly dizzy. He hoped he knew what was happening, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t want to jinx it but he must be getting it right. Unless he spectacularly misread all of John’s signals in hospital he believes he knows exactly what John means to do. “I’m going to give it a go but if it happens that I’ve spectacularly misread you, tell me and I’ll stop.” John sounds breathless and Sherlock is sure his sounds the same as he replies,

 

“Of course. Experiment away.” John smiles that soft, fond smile that always makes Sherlock’s heart race and gently, so so gently as if Sherlock is made of porcelain, he lays his hand on Sherlocks cheek and guides him down slowly so their faces are on now at the same height. With one more soft, shaky breath, John leans in that extra half an inch and their lips are touching. It’s a soft kiss. Barely there, really. John’s lips are touching his own just enough that he can feel the chapped lips on his own and John’s breath on his face. For such a short, sweet kiss, Sherlock feels dizzy from it and when John pulls back and their lips disconnect Sherlock feels an instant loss. They both stare each other in the eyes, Sherlock still bent down slightly and John’s hand still curling around his cheek. Surprisingly it’s Sherlock who breaks the silent spell first.

 

“So? What results did you find from this… experiment?” John pauses for a moment as if seriously considering this.

 

“You know, I’m not quite sure. I think I may have to repeat it to get more accurate results.” Sherlock smiles. He feels giddy. John is making him feel giddy.

 

“As a fellow scientist, I agree that repeating an experiment is a must for accurate results.” John nods along very seriously until quite suddenly they both break into soft giggles and bring their lips together for the second, but certainly not last time.

 

As their lips are pressed together and they are giggling in each others arms Sherlock feels all the residual pain from the hospital and his injuries float way and all that’s left is them. The pain will eventually return and theres still so much they need to say and do but in this moment all that matters is that they’re there and they’re together.

 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, together in Baker Street just as they always should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Wow. Finally. I know this took forever to update but the procrastination bug got ahold of me, lol. I really hope you find the comfort part of this fic satisfying. It took me forever to write but I'm really happy with how it turned out. Thanks so much to everyone who read it or left kudos or comments! Every time I get one of those it makes my day :)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy this was hard to write. My God. 
> 
> I really hope you liked it and I look forward to your feedback! Have a wonderful day you precious turnips! 
> 
> Xoxo, Miki


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